


The Things We Do

by Teyla_Minh



Series: Season 8 Braime Ship Spiral [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Choose Your Own Ending, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff via Flashbacks, Jaime is the king of self-loathing, Jaime just needs a hug, Lannister bros are the best bros, PTSD, Post 8.04, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunion, Sansa and Brienne are BFF's, shameless fluff, useless idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyla_Minh/pseuds/Teyla_Minh
Summary: “She did not survive the Long Night to wait around in Winterfell, and any knight worthy of the title would be rushing off to save the damsel in distress.Even if the damsel in question is a one-handed Kingslayer who cannot see his own value in the world.”Set after episode 8.04, "The Last of the Starks": Brienne goes after Jaime to speak with him and they (and you!) make a decision about where to go next.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write this to heal my heart after 8.04 (didn't we all??) so it's probably not very original. 
> 
> I have a lot of theories as to how the show will end, but there’s no way to predict what will happen next. Depending on how things eventually pan out, I might write some of them up as Best Case Scenarios after the event. In the meantime, here is my take on what I want to happen next for Jaime and Brienne after that heart-breaking scene. It’s angsty and I’m sorry, but it’ll get better, I promise.
> 
> This is a standalone from my previous two stories but I’ve included it in the same series regardless, in case I end up writing fic for earlier episodes when I get around to a rewatch. This season is KILLING me and I have a horrible feeling it’s only going to get worse.
> 
> Intended as a short one-shot and ended up with chapters (again) because I fail at brevity. The rating is for language / implied smut and not liable to change for any other reason (just to avoid disappointing anyone in the long-run).

The sound of her wretched sobbing haunts him for two full days. 

He tries everything he can to block it out: listening to the rhythmic clop of horse-hooves as they dig up snow and mud; singing as many songs in his head as he can remember the words to; plotting and scheming a plan for when he finally reaches Kings Landing, _if_ he reaches Kings Landing, that will not get him killed on sight; when all that fails, remembering the Battle of Winterfell and the terrors endured, the horror and the stench and the relentless dead, because he deserves to feel nothing but pain.

It is no use.  Everything brings him back to _her_ : to knighting her and fighting with her; to the feast after the battle; to his brother’s stupid drinking game and the way she lit up in a way he had never seen before, relaxed and happy and laughing with him and Tyrion both; to what happened afterwards, and continued to happen for the weeks that followed; to her face as she pleaded with him not to leave and the way it crumbled as he left her.

_You’re a good man._

He is not a good man.  A good man would have told her the truth.  A good man would have stayed when she begged him to do so.  A _good man_ would never have started the whole sorry affair, knowing it would only end in heartbreak.

At this point, he cannot even say whose heart has been broken more.

A hundred times, he wants to turn around; a hundred times, he presses on instead.  He has started this preposterous suicide mission, given up the best thing in his dishonourable shit of a life to embark on it, and he is damn well going to finish it.

She will probably never forgive him, and he’ll be better off dead.

—J|B—

It is Podrick who finds her, weeping in Winterfell’s courtyard.  He calls her “My Lady”, and then corrects it to “Ser”, and it’s all she can do to keep from sobbing again.  She feels weak and stupid, and hates that he has seen her like this, but there’s a gaping hole in her chest and it will not stop aching.  She has endured pain beyond reason, but this is the worst kind of agony.

Of course, Podrick guesses what has happened.  There’s not a soul in the entire bloody North who isn’t aware of her dalliance with the Kingslayer, thanks to Tyrion’s gossiping tongue, thanks to his brother’s inability to keep his eyes (or hand) off her for more than half a second whenever they share the same space, thanks to fucking Tormund complaining to anyone who’ll listen.  It hits her again, the pain, a fresh wave of devastation, like the scrabbling claws of a wight are squeezing her heart.  It had felt so _real_. For a few precious weeks, she had allowed herself to believe in those songs of her childhood, allowed herself to believe that she was loved.

She is a fool.  Of course he would leave her and go back to his sister.  Of course he did not love her.  What a ridiculous notion to cling to.

Podrick lends her his fur and ushers her silently back indoors.  He will make a fine knight some day.

He escorts her all the way back to her room and asks if there is anything else she needs.  He is trying hard not to fuss over her, and when she sends him away he merely nods.  Her grief is bubbling into fury.  There is sympathy in his eyes and she does not want it; what she _wants_ is to fight someone in the training yard, beat them until they yield and then beat them again.  She wants to go back to the Long Night and throw herself into the fray with all of the anger that burns inside her.  She will not take out her rage on Podrick when the person she wants to take it out on is miles away by now.

Once the door closes and she is alone, the dam breaks again.  In this room are housed the armour, the sword, the first gifts he had ever bestowed upon her; they remind her of the night before the battle, his blade upon her shoulders, a gift less tangible but as full of significance as any traditional courtship ritual.  They have never communicated in traditional ways, and she wishes, just _once_ , that they had managed not to speak in riddles.

Unless that was always his intention, to addle her with misdirection and words dripping with unspoken meaning, saying more with silence than with sentences.

Even now, when they have _known_ each other, she cannot say she understands him.  That is what infuriates her most of all; that she did not see this day coming; that he made her believe it _would never_ come.

The smell of him still clings to the pillow, the furs, probably every item of clothing she owns.  She wants to burn it all to ashes almost as much as she wants to burrow her face into it; she has no idea how she will get through the next hour, the next day, the next week. 

But she will find a way.  She will gather the scattered pieces of her broken heart and lock them safely away; she will steel herself against the world as she always has.

She will not allow herself to be weak again.

 —J|B—

The news spreads, over the next day; she informs Lady Sansa first, not to seek comfort or for any sense of female solidarity, but because she feels it might be useful to know for the war effort.  By late evening most of Winterfell has been made aware, and everywhere she walks she feels eyes upon her.  She does not want their sympathy or their pity.  Podrick is cautious around her, wanting to assist however he can, but wary of upsetting her.

She goes about her day as normally as possible, evading conversation and eating alone.  She trains in the yard but her anger has faded to a dull ache in her stomach.  Thank the gods, Tormund has returned to Castle Black with all the other Wildlings; she would not be able to bear his advances now and does not think she has it within her to be polite.

As the sky turns to dusk, she goes to the Godswood for peace and solitude, exhausted from maintaining an emotionless façade.  She does not expect to find Bran already there, and almost turns around to leave again, to find somewhere else to spend the evening until she is tired enough to go to bed and not think about what is missing, when he speaks in his usual eerie manner.

“He won’t be coming back.”

It cuts like a dragonglass dagger to her heart, stabbing, a spreading burn, and for a second she cannot breathe; she feels tears welling up and struggles to control them.  She turns away from the Stark boy so he will not see her cry, so she does not have to try and unravel his cryptic expressions.  Then, he speaks again:

“That’s what he believes.”

She wants to disappear rather than engage in this conversation, but hope blooms in her chest, unprecedented and unchecked, and she cannot quite ignore it.

“You know something,” she guesses, wiping her eyes and turning back.

Bran nods, his eyes warm but strangely unseeing, as though he is looking straight through her.

“He’s going south to kill her, but he doesn’t think he’s going to succeed.  He knows she must be stopped.”

“Kill her…  No.  That’s… that’s not why he…”

Her head is reeling, as she tries to remember his last words to her and what they could have meant.  It had seemed so clear at the time: that he was leaving her for his twin.  She has spent the past day trying very hard to forget.

_She’s hateful.  And so am I._

There had been so much noise in her head, she could not understand him.  She allows the memory to resurface: his hand clinging to hers like an anchor, the list of terrible deeds he had performed for his sister, the look on his face as she started to cry, the way it had _changed_ only a second later to something steely and emotionless, as though he was shutting himself away.

It crashes down on her like a crumbling wall, the realisation of what he has done, of what he will try to do.

“No.  Gods, _no_.  She’ll _murder_ him.”

“He thought she would murder you.”

Finally, _finally_ , she understands that he was trying to keep her safe; trying to prevent her from following him by making her believe he had no good in him.  He is the only person who can stop Cersei Lannister from winning this terrible war and terrorising the known world, the only person who can get close enough to kill her.

What terrifies her is that Cersei is not the only one who will end up dead.  She will not go down without a fight – not without causing as much damage as possible.  She has a clever and fatal tongue, and her Queensguard monster will see to the rest.

“How… what am I supposed to do?”

She feels helpless, trapped by indecision.  She wants to follow, but is afraid of what might happen if she does.

“He has only one day’s head start,” says Bran matter-of-factly.  “He’ll need to rest at some point.”

“Are you suggesting I should go after him?”

“The decision is yours, Ser Brienne.”

 _Yes_.  She is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a title hard-earned through deeds which only _he_ had been witness to, oaths that he had bid her to fulfil.  She did not survive the Long Night to wait around in Winterfell, and any knight worthy of the title would be rushing off to save the damsel in distress.

Even if the damsel in question is a one-handed Kingslayer who cannot see his own value in the world.

But she is sworn to Lady Stark, and cannot just go marching off into the night for her own personal gain. 

“Sansa will understand,” says Bran, as if reading her thoughts, though he sounds more _human_ than he has done for the past few minutes.  When she looks at him, there is the hint of a smile on his face and it almost reaches his eyes.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she responds with a sigh.  “She only allowed him to stay here at my behest.  I have no doubt she would have turned him away once the battle was over, if not for…”  She swallows the lump in her throat; it is still too raw to think about.  “And I’m sworn to protect her.  I can’t just leave.”

“We are all going South, eventually,” Bran informs her.  “Some of us will just get there sooner.”

 

She is gone before darkness falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming hopefully Saturday. I'm not sure I will manage to finish this story before 8.05 airs, but I'll try my best.
> 
> Thoughts/kudos gratefully accepted. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thanks to all who commented and left kudos on chapter 1, and on my previous story (“we have survived all…”); I started out intending to respond to all of them, but then I went to sleep and couldn’t keep up. I'm quite overwhelmed by the response that this story has had, TBH - my eternal gratitude to all. <3
> 
> This chapter contains a flashback / continuation of That Scene in 8.04, which is rating-appropriate - it's written in italics because I couldn't think of a better way to delineate it as being a past event, so apologies if that makes it harder to read. Also, since the creators apparently forgot about Brienne’s encounter with the bear (or they have some kind of magical scar-vanishing medicine in Westeros IDK), I fixed that for them. They’re welcome, I’m sure.

With Sansa’s protection entrusted to Podrick – he is more than capable of the task – and Bran promising to pass on the news of her departure, Brienne is on the road to Kings Landing.  She has taken only what she needs to survive: furs, food and drink, a small amount of coin, and the fastest horse in the Winterfell stables.

She pushes the poor, beleaguered beast to its very limits, barely able to see the road ahead of her in the darkness, as she tries to regain some ground on Jaime.  He cannot have gotten far in only a day, and with the snow starting up again she hopes he will not have strayed from the road.  To take a shortcut in the North in winter would be suicide, and she very much suspects he does not want to die prematurely if his plan is to get himself murdered trying to win a war single-handedly. (She cannot quite summon the energy to smile at the irony.)

The bitter air is harsh in her lungs, stinging her face, her breath clouding in front of her with every exhale.  The horse grunts from the effort of maintaining the pace she has set, hooves kicking up mud and ice with every impact.  The rhythm of it grounds her against the silent backdrop of snow, and from that grounding she feels her rage flare up anew.

She sees perfectly clearly now what his intentions had been, and her desire to strangle him is almost as strong as her need to enfold him in her arms and make him understand.  _The stupidest fucking Lannister_.  If Tyrion had not gone south with Daenerys and her fleet, she thinks, he might have talked some sense into his idiot brother.  As it stands, that impossible task is now her responsibility.

Her anger fuels her through the night until the sky grows light with the dawn, when her growling stomach begs for a reprieve.  She has covered good ground in only a few hours.  The snow is falling thick and heavy, making visibility almost as bad as during the battle for Winterfell; but at least there is no more Night King, no more walking dead to worry about.  If she is set upon by bandits or robbers, they will feel the sharp end of her blade and the brunt of her wrath.

There had been snow on the night of the feast, she remembers; a light flurry which turned to a blizzard by the time she had returned to her quarters.  Warmed by wine and laughter and good company, a fire in her hearth, she could almost have felt at home in the Starks’ ancestral castle; a tundra of ice just as isolating as a sapphire sea.

Little did she realise that it would take a mere knock upon her door, for her to consider herself duly settled.

—J|B—

_She does not know what to do with her hands._

_It seems a ridiculous thing to be focusing on, considering, but she has never yet been bested in a duel and she does not intend to start now.  There are no rules to aid her, no training in all the lands which could have prepared her; all she can do is follow her instincts, as unhoned as they are in this situation._

_Calling the kiss unexpected would be an understatement.  Of course, she is not so naïve as to have misinterpreted his intentions, even if she struggled to believe them, but everything happened so quickly she barely had time to think.  She has to keep reminding herself that it is Jaime here with her in this unprecedented moment: Jaime’s mouth against hers, Jaime’s hand against her face.  His thumb caresses her cheek almost tenderly in comparison to the force of his kiss._

_She wills her arms to find a purpose, and her hands find their way to his chest.  When he does not protest (quite the opposite, in fact) they move to his sides, to the small of his back, her arms encircling him and tugging him closer.  He yields, walking her backwards to the wall; she somehow finds the wherewithal to kick both of their discarded shirts out of the way before they can trip over them, but she has always been the more sensible of the two of them._

_The stones are cold against her back; Jaime is warm against her front; she arches towards his heat and something that sounds suspiciously like a growl emerges from his throat.  His left hand drops from her face to her back, sliding up between her shoulder blades so she cannot move away from him.  She yearns to be held in_ both _of his arms, but he holds his right uselessly at his side.  The golden hand has been nothing but a hindrance from the moment he gained it._

_Then, as suddenly as it began, he pulls away from her.  Her eyes snap open as she catches her breath, searching for his in the low light.  There is an unreadable expression on his face and she feels the barest twinge of panic._

_“This is wrong,” he says, and releases her, taking a step back._

_She resists the urge to protect her modesty, staring defiantly back at him; it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.  She sets her face into an impassive expression, to try and conceal the painful realisation which is washing over her, emotions she is tethering down until it is safe to release them._

_“You had better leave, then.”_

_“What?”  He appears genuinely confused by her suggestion, and she wonders exactly how much wine he’d imbibed before knocking on her door._

_“You said, ‘This is wrong’,” she reminds him._

_“Oh.  Yes.  I did.”  He blinks at her.  “That’s not quite what I meant.”_

_This conversation is proving a struggle.  “You’re very good at not saying what you mean.  The wine has made you an expert in it.”_

_“Brienne…”_

_“Speak plainly, or do not speak at all.”_

_She is rapidly losing patience, and he knows it even through his drunken haze.  His expression softens again, to her surprise, and she tries not to think too hard about what that means._

_“I intended to say that I have gone about this in completely the wrong way,” he says.  “My nerves got the better of me, and I…”_

_“You… what?”_

_When he lifts his hand to her face again, it is to gently caress her cheekbone with his thumb, and she feels the wall around her heart begin to crumble, against her better judgement.  She misses his warmth already._

_“My words are failing me tonight,” he admits.  “I’d rather show you, if you would permit me?”_

_She does not trust herself to speak, in case her own words are similarly muddled, and merely nods her agreement.  A moment of silence extends between them where she tries to read his face; his eyes are almost black (she tells herself it is from the low light because she is too scared to consider the alternative) and they are all she can focus on as he leans closer._

_This time, when he kisses her, it is tender and undemanding._

_Her arms hang limply by her sides again for the briefest of moments, before she lifts them: her right to cover his where it still rests against her cheek, their fingers interlocking, whilst her left hand reaches for his right forearm.  He tries to jerk out of her grip in surprise, but she tightens her hold; then the notion occurs to her that if Jaime can deal with the golden appendage one-handed, then so can she.  Her fingers search for the leather bands attaching the hand to his arm, finds that they are secured with hinged clasps – a Maester’s clever design, no doubt – and within seconds they are loosened and the heavy prosthesis falls away into her hand._

_Their kiss breaks as he pulls away to take in a sharp breath, and her heart aches at the expression on his face: a devastating combination of shame and uncomprehension.  Her first instinct is to discard the hand out of the window, or throw it onto the fire, but instead she finds the nearest flat surface within reach and carefully places it down, her gaze flitting away from his only briefly while she does so.  When she looks back, his eyes are shining in the firelight and he looks as though he might be about to cry; she does not have any time to think further on it before his mouth is on hers once more._

_Emboldened, she wastes no time in ensuring his right arm is firmly wrapped around her; he hesitates for only a second before tightening his grasp and pulling her closer.  Her hands find his chest again, sliding up until she is cupping his face, and it prompts him to deepen the kiss, his splayed fingers sinking into her hair.  A noise rumbles from her throat which she would probably find embarrassing, if not for the fact that he makes a similar noise in response._

_The wine tastes all the sweeter on his tongue and she wants_ more _: more of his warmth and his arms and his lips moving against hers.  She takes a step forward, pushing closer, and his arm tightens around her waist in encouragement; her hips roll instinctively towards his almost beyond her control and what she feels pressing back is not a surprise, exactly, but it shocks her nonetheless._

_Jaime must sense her hesitation, because he carefully releases her again and both his good hand and stump rest at her waist to gently push her back.  There is no rejection in the gesture, only quiet care and concern for her feelings; he does not want to scare her.  She feels a sudden rush of affection that he is no longer worried about his foreshortened arm coming into contact with her; that, at least, she has managed to get right, even if between them they have approached this situation like the drunken fools they are._

_He stares at her for a long time, his eyes drifting over her features but never leaving her face.  She tries to remain impassive but can feel a frown of confusion edging onto her brow.  His hand lifts again, fingertips gently brushing a lock of dishevelled hair away from her forehead before ghosting against the skin of her cheek._

_“You’re beautiful,” he says, and her heart almost stops.  She shakes her head, trying to escape his gaze._

_“How much wine have you—“_

_She is prevented from finishing the question by his thumb brushing against her mouth, effectively silencing her._

_“You asked me to speak plainly,” he reminds her.  “I am doing so.”_

_Brienne can only stare at him, searching for any trace of dishonesty in his words, except she knows him better than either of them would prefer, and she has not seen such a look on his face since he told her about King Aerys; since he commanded her to kneel and made her a knight.  She knows the glint in his eyes when he mocks her; it was not there then, and it is not there now._

_“I would have my brother play his game every night,” he says, trying to fill the silence, “if it would make you smile like that again.  And I wouldn’t let him ruin it with his bawdy suggestions.”_

_“It made you chase after me, didn’t it?” she challenges._

_“Yes, but it also upset you, and you were enjoying yourself until Tyrion lowered the tone.  He’s good at that, by the way; I probably should have warned you.”_

_“I wasn’t upset,” she clarifies, though he clearly does not believe her.  “I just rather felt that the game was unfairly balanced in Tyrion’s favour and that there was no point in continuing.”_

_“It’s his game,” says Jaime.  “He can play by whatever rules he wants.  Still, it seems that defending your honour has become something of a habit for me.”_

_“And yet, here you are.”_

_He smiles at that, but the irony wears off soon enough, a seriousness overtaking his expression.  “Brienne, if you want me to leave, you only have to ask.  We can stop this now; you need only say the word.  I have very little honour left in me, but what remains is reserved for you.”_

_It takes her a few seconds to understand that he is not rejecting her, but offering her a choice.  She is so used to being unwanted that believing the opposite is almost impossible._

_“Do you_ want _to leave?”_

_“Never.”_

_“So stay.”_

—J|B—

She does not want to remember; she would sooner erase the memory completely than be cursed by it now.  And yet, she cannot stop; it warms her against the cold as much as it tears her heart in two.

She had wanted to tell him, that night, to confess her deepest and most long-held feelings, but words soon became an economy not to be wasted.  He had kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, when she asked him to stay, his lips trailing fire wherever they went, giving each and every one of her battle-bruises tender attention before moving to the pale parallel scars at her neck; she had hissed and flinched away and he had stopped, before realising that she had not reacted in pain but something far deeper: something he recognised only too well.  His right arm had twitched involuntarily against her side, and a tacit mutual agreement had been reached: it was too soon for the sharing of these particular scars.

She had to remind him repeatedly that he did not need to be so gentle with her; that she would not break.  He reminded her in turn that there were _other_ ways to break her.

No, there had been not the time nor the opportunity to bare her heart that night; nor had there been in the weeks that followed.  She regrets it now, not telling him.  Perhaps if she had done, it might have made a difference; but even now, after everything, she cannot say if he would have reciprocated.  Only two days ago, she would have suggested that she knew Jaime Lannister better than any other person in the world; better even than he knew himself.  Now she wonders if it was merely an illusion; if the good man she had allowed into her heart had ever been there at all.

She gives herself a mental kick, willing herself to stop travelling this particularly self-pitying path.  She _knows_ him; Bran Stark’s cryptic visions have reassured her of that fact.  He would never have travelled to Winterfell – to the North that he hates so much – if he had any intention of returning to his sister.  He may be stupid, but even Jaime is not such an idiot as to walk straight back into the lion’s jaws.  Cersei has already threatened to kill him, and sent his former sell-sword to fulfil that promise; he must have some kind of plan to end this that will not result in his blood being shed along with hers.

Then she remembers that he jumped into a bear pit, once, one-handed and unarmed, just to save her life.  It is the realisation of that which prompts her to mount the horse again and kick it into action, driving onwards into the freezing snow.

Of course he doesn’t have a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t intend this fic to be so Brienne-centric but apparently she’s the one doing all the directing at present. I’ll try and get back to Jaime’s side of things next chapter. I also intended this to have a much longer third section than what's here, but the flashback gave me a lot of trouble and I wanted to share it once it was finally done, so there you have it.
> 
> Don’t get me wrong: I love both of my baes beyond reason and want them to be happy, and I will defend Jaime to the death. I honestly do believe he’s doing what he thinks is the right thing, but I worry that I only believe that thanks to Nik’s stupendous acting in that final scene rather than because that’s what the writers are intending.
> 
> I have a bit of a headcanon/theory about where this could go. Jaime is a man formed of dichotomies – light and dark, good and bad, Brienne and Cersei – and is constantly torn between them. I think (/hope) his redemption will come in the form of him learning to live with those opposites rather than thinking he has to be one or the other, and I think he will only come to terms with that once Cersei out of the picture. But I also have no trust at all in the writers at this point, thanks to their relentless captaining of the SS Twincest, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see…
> 
> (Incidentally, I am giving up on Tumblr until this season is over and done with because the leaks/spoilers are getting harder to avoid and I can’t cope with the constant fluctuation between hope and despair. Honestly, I already feel healthier for it. :P It goes without saying that if you do know anything, please keep it to yourself!)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Inevitable reunion hopefully coming in the next chapter, which I am intending to post later today or early tomorrow if it cooperates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter this time, and more of Jaime's perspective. This feels like a bit of a filler chapter but hopefully it's still enjoyable.
> 
> I'm hoping there'll be just one more chapter to finish this story off (I never intended it to be an epic!) which I'll try and get done before the next episode airs in the US tonight, but don't hold me to that!
> 
> Please enjoy.

The weather forces him to make an unprecedented stop.  He has no issues whatsoever in riding through a blizzard – if anything, the cover of snow is a blessing for a man trying his best not to be recognised – but his golden hand is liable to give him frostbite and he does not relish losing what is left of his arm.  The numbness is spreading from his wrist to his elbow; the rest of him is cold, not unbearably so after acclimatising to the arctic temperatures of the North, but the icy jolts shooting up his wrist are becoming more and more painful.

After another thirty minutes of riding, he has no choice but to wrench the hand from his arm and bury the stump inside his furs, trying desperately to warm it up.  He pulls his horse to a stop for a moment, to wrap the end of his arm in additional layers before he continues on.  The gnarled scar burns with pinpricks of heat as the feeling returns.

He glares at the golden hand in his lap.  The accursed thing has been of no use at any point in its existence; in Kings Landing he had the opposite problem, the metal warming so much from the sun it was almost unbearable to wear for more long periods of time, but of course Cersei had insisted.  The sight of it, now tarnished from the Long Night and countless days of manual labour within the walls of Winterfell, offends him as much as the stump had offended his sister.

Before he can change his mind, he drops it to the floor, smiling in grim satisfaction as it embeds into the snow, and he abandons it at the side of the road as he kicks the horse back into action.

He stops at the first tavern he finds: a shabby and ramshackle building, in need of repair in places, but with an inviting warmth emanating from within.  There are already a few horses hitched outside and some lights from the upstairs windows; it is not as uninhabited as he would like, but it will have to do.  Hopefully, without the golden hand, nobody will realise who he is; his appearance has altered enough since leaving Kings Landing that nothing else about him would give him away.

Several faces turn to look at him as he shoves open the heavy door of the tavern, a frosty gale billowing in behind him along with half a drift of snow; he forces it closed again and the warmth of the room envelops him.  His Northern furs are a more than adequate disguise, and the men gathered near the fire, or hunched over plates and cups of ale, pay him no further mind.  He approaches the barkeep purposefully and demands food and a bed for the night; the man informs him that both victuals and rooms are scarce, but a flash of coin persuades him otherwise.

He drinks slowly from a cup of weak ale as he waits for his dinner to arrive, relishing the heat from the fire as it sinks into his bones.  The pie, when it emerges – a sorry affair with a burned crust and a filling that mostly comprises the North’s blandest vegetables – is accompanied by two separate serving girls, and he suppresses a groan as he tries to be polite.  He has accidentally made himself conspicuous by not being dirt poor.

He sends one of them away to stoke a fire in his room, but the other is more stubborn and his only remaining option is to wave his handless arm in her direction, hoping it will be enough to frighten her off.  It is to her credit that she barely flinches – barely seems _bothered_ , in fact – but it does at least work in deterring her, and she disappears back to the kitchen.  The barkeep eyes him suspiciously, and several other pairs of eyes are trained in his direction.  He tries to ignore them.

It seems inevitable when two gruff-looking Northerners approach him, and he curses inwardly whilst trying to appear nonchalant.  They drop heavily onto the bench opposite him, flanking him, effectively blocking his exit.

“Don’t get a lot of strangers here,” says the first man.

“Don’t get a lot of one-handed men, neither,” says the other.

Jaime smiles politely, non-threateningly.  “I’m just passing through.”

“Passing through,” say the men in unison, mockingly.  The first man – Jaime mentally dubs him ‘Ser Bearskin’ for the noticeably large fur about his shoulders – sets his face into a scowl.  “To where?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”  He injects a light joviality into his tone, hoping it will eventually persuade them to leave him alone.  “Anywhere that can make use of a battered old cripple, I suppose.”

The second man (‘Ser Wolftooth’, he decides, from the yellowing fang threaded around his neck) eyes his handless stump with something akin to admiration.  “Must be a story behind that.”

“Lost it in the battle for Winterfell,” he says, desperately thinking on his feet.   Both of the men are staring at him with a different sort of curiosity, and now that he has their attention he finds it easier to spin them a tale.  “I was lucky to escape with my life, in fact.  Have you ever stared death in the face, gentlemen?  I have, and it’s hideous.”

Ser Bearskin leans back, arms folded, and his gaze drifts to the hilt of Widow’s Wail, emblazoned as it is with prominent Lannister gold and rubies.  Jaime’s left hand moves instinctively to the sword, a warning flashing in his gaze.

“That’s a fine sword,” mutters Ser Bearskin.

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“Giving those out at the forge, were they?”

“I stole it,” he blurts out.  “From a dead man on the field.  Some Southern noble who’d come all the way North to fight.  Apparently they called him ‘Kingslayer’.”

He regrets saying it almost immediately; his presence at Winterfell has been common knowledge in the nearest hamlets and towns, but he is not sure how far the news has travelled.  He’s not even certain how much sway the mention of his hated nickname will have.  The silence extends as Sers Bearskin and Wolftooth exchange a glance, and then return to eying him suspiciously.  His hand tightens on Widow’s Wail, his body preparing for a fight.

Then both men erupt into laughter.  “The fucking Kingslayer!  Couldn’t survive the North even with his fancy sword.  Damn me to all Seven Hells if that’s not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Ser Wolftooth claps him firmly on the shoulder and he manages a slightly watery smile which is more of a grimace.

“More ale!” calls Ser Bearskin, and within moments three more cups appear on the table, as Jaime’s new friends lean closer and ask for further details.   He is not the best storyteller – that was always more his brother’s forte – but he has enough memories of the Long Night to keep the Northern men entertained for a few hours.

Nobody will know that Ser Jaime Lannister has passed through this tavern today, he reminds himself with a sense of relief.

—J|B—

It is almost dusk when the storm finally abates, the gale-blown blizzard reducing to little more than occasional flurries of fine snow.   There is a distant glow up ahead, the warm glow of a village on the horizon.  Brienne has not slept in nearly two days, and the thought of a tavern causes her entire being to yearn for rest.

She wants to continue, to gain more ground on Jaime and hopefully catch up with him before they get close to Kings Landing, but a more sensible part of her is well aware that she needs sleep and sustenance before she can face him.  She will require both her wits and her strength to deal with this impossible situation, and Jaime is adept at finding the cracks in both.

The horse is growing tired and its pace is wavering; the last thing she wants is for the poor creature to keel over from exhaustion.  She slows to a walk, trying to gather her bearings now that visibility is clearer.  With the snow and ice no longer driving into her face, she realises that her hair is soaked.  She needs to dry off and warm up, or she will catch a chill.  Whilst there may well be some bitter irony in dying on the Kings Road in the middle of a quest, it is not how she wants this story to end.

A mile or so later, something at the side of the road catches her eye: the remaining daylight glinting off an object half-buried in the snow.  She thinks nothing of it, at first, but then suddenly pulls the horse to a stop and dismounts, heading back a few paces on foot to investigate.  She shifts some of the snow with the toe of her boot, and then gasps in surprise. 

The item, when she bends to retrieve it, is tarnished and marred with tiny scratches which have significantly reduced its lustre; it is no longer bright and golden, but she recognises it immediately.

Gripped by a sudden terror, she desperately scans her surroundings, expecting any moment to see a telltale patch of blood or a half-buried corpse.  The light is dwindling but she can see well enough; there is nothing but a flawless expanse of snow on either side of her.  Any dead or injured body would have been destroyed by wolves by now; there is no sign of any carnage.

As her heart-rate returns to normal, she tries to make sense of things.  The hand appears to have been abandoned.  It is impossible to place any kind of timescale on it, as the wind has blown much of the snow into drifts against rocks and trees and low stone walls; by rights it should have been completely buried.  She feels a tendril of hope blooming in her chest that he cannot be very far away from her.

Before returning to the horse and heading onwards to the village in the distance, she stows the hand safely in her pack.  She hates the sight of it, and so does he, but she might forgive its existence if it leads her straight to Jaime.

—J|B—

_They sit opposite each other at mealtimes, whether in the Great Hall, or on the frosty ground of the training yard, or at the small table in her chambers; she is yet to persuade him that the golden hand is not needed.  Even when they share meals in private, he will not take it off.  It causes him obvious physical discomfort to wear it, and a greater emotional burden to remove it._

_At night, at least, when they have shut out the world, he feels more comfortable to leave it behind, but is constantly wary of his arm coming into contact with her.  It takes at least a week before he does not flinch away in shame when the stump brushes against her hip or her back in the middle of the night.  She tries to impart that his missing hand is a symbol for where their story began, but does not have the right words to express herself properly._

_She hates the golden hand: it’s nothing more than a useless ornament.  She tells him repeatedly that Gendry could make him something better – something useful, something more comfortable – but he refuses every time._

_Whether for good or bad, it reminds him of_ her _.  His sister.  For that reason alone, Brienne would like it to vanish forever.  Jealousy is a weak and destructive emotion, and she constantly chastises herself for entertaining it.  They do not speak of Cersei, or Kings Landing, or what will happen after the war is over.  Jaime says more through his silence than he ever could with words._

_He wakes skittish, some mornings, already half out of the bed before she can reach for him, before he remembers that there is no dishonour in staying.  Then he sinks into her arms with relief, nuzzling into her warmth._

_It takes another fortnight before she realises that he is not giving the golden hand as much attention as it previously received.  At every previous meeting between them, before Winterfell, before the battle, the hand had been polished to a high shine, glinting in the sunlight.  There is no time for such frivolities now, and the metal is dark with ingrained mud, tiny dents littering its surface; Jaime has thrown himself whole-heartedly into whatever tasks are needed around the castle without a complaint, and the hand has been used as a lever, a makeshift hammer, a paperweight, a means of blocking a sparring sword.  This, Brienne understands, is him trying to eschew his family name.  He cannot shed it, but he can conceal it, forge a new life in the North._

_Eventually, they reach an agreement: she will stop haranguing him about it as long as he does not wear it in private._

—J|B—

His room at the tavern has seen better days.  The fire in the grate struggles against a draughty window and bricks which are slightly damp to the touch.  It is barely warm enough to remove his furs, but infinitely better than being outside.  For one night, it will have to do.

He should spend his time wisely, perhaps by coming up with some kind of plan for when he gets to Kings Landing.  There are plenty more days on the road ahead for him to fine-tune it.  Instead, every time he tries to focus, his thoughts return to Winterfell.  He had never believed that such an imposing castle – Stark by name as well as by nature – could feel like home.  All it had taken was Brienne defending him in the Great Hall for the place to become more welcoming.

He hates the North – the climate, the people, the emptiness, every single bloody thing about it – but for a few short weeks it had been more of a safe haven than Kings Landing ever was.  He told himself he had only gone there to keep the promise his sister had broken – to fight for the living – but in truth there was something greater pulling him there.  Two words from Brienne – _fuck loyalty_ – and his world turned upside down; she was good at doing that, and he was generally good at ignoring it when it was inconvenient.  But that undead creature at the Dragon-pit had haunted him, and if death came to Kings Landing the entire world was doomed.

Death will not be marching south; at least that is now a certainty.  No, all that remains now is the war for the throne.  A war which he is not so certain can be won without thousands of innocent lives being lost.   The Dragon Queen has a glint of latent madness in her eyes which terrifies him, just like her father before her.  Tyrion trusts her, but Tyrion has always been a bad judge of character.  Now that she has lost another dragon, her advisor kidnapped – and probably dead, by now – it seems inevitable that the city will burn.

If it does not burn from dragonfire, it will erupt in green flames.  His sister has a penchant for wildfire, and he’s known the madness in her for years, and became very good at ignoring that, as well.

He is no stranger to preventing mad monarchs from destroying their cities, but this is the first time he has only been concerned with one particular life.

Cersei has never been any good at sharing.  Even when they were children, she was horrible at it.  He has no doubt in his mind whatsoever: if Cersei finds out about Brienne, the impending war will be nothing but an inconvenient obstacle in the face of her jealousy; she will stop at nothing to punish them both.

He could have gone about things better; speaking to her would have been a good start.  He had acted without thinking.  A note might have softened the blow, but his penmanship is terrible left-handed as well as slow; she would have caught him regardless.  His greatest fear was that Brienne would follow him, and as soon as he sensed her approaching him in the courtyard he knew what had to be done.  She needed to hate him; he had to make her believe he was not who she thought he was.

Doing the right thing has never felt so wrong; even losing his hand did not hurt as much as breaking Brienne’s heart.

He is jolted from his thoughts by a firm knock at the door to his room, despite his request not to be disturbed.  He imagines it is one of the serving girls from downstairs, hoping to catch him in a good mood after dinner.

“I told you I wasn’t interested!” he calls out, loud enough for whoever is on the other side to hear him.  “Go away!”

They knock again, harder this time, and then again, and again – the noise bombarding him.  He tries to ignore it but his unexpected visitor is persistent.  With a face like thunder, he strides across the room to wrench open the door.

“What part of ‘go away’ didn’t you under—“

The protestation disappears into mid-air and he can only stand there in frozen surprise, as he realises who is standing outside his door.

“Brienne?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a cliffhanger? :)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn’t get this finished before 8.05 aired, for which I apologise, but thankfully all my post-episode rage was enough to prompt me to get it done anyway. So that’s something? Evidently, this is now a canon-divergence, but since canon is clearly wrong, I'm not sure anyone really cares. :P
> 
> Anyway, this is essentially just one long section comprising a conversation which is, by turns, full of angst, fluff and banter. It’s a bit meandering because there were a lot of things I wanted to try and cover, but hopefully it’s not too OOC. Hope you enjoy.

It is well and truly dark by the time she finds the tavern, the outside temperature dropping significantly.  There is a sound of raised voices and laughter from within, bright orange shadows from a fire reflecting off the windows.  Brienne is more than aware of how dangerous it is to be a woman travelling alone, but she cannot just continue indefinitely.   She contents herself with the thought that she is better able than most to defend herself, if necessary.

She is surprised to find that the tavern’s interior is more deserted than the level of noise would have led to her believe: a small group of fur-clad men are huddled around a table with their cups of ale, laughing heartily about something, but the place is otherwise deserted.  A burly man behind the bar informs her that all the rooms are already gone; she requests to sleep in the kitchen, or the cellar, anywhere that has walls and a ceiling, and is in the process of arguing when the conversation in the corner catches her attention.

She approaches the table and the chatter slowly dwindles to silence.  She feels their collective gaze upon her, slowly appraising her, but does not let it faze her.

“Did I hear you mention the Kingslayer?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

“Who’s asking?”

“Someone who’s looking for him.  He owes me a debt.”

“You’re out of luck, then,” says one of the men.  “He’s dead.”

For a second, it feels as though the floor has been pulled out from beneath her, and she can barely speak over the rush of blood in her ears.  “Dead…?”

“In the battle of Winterfell, so we heard.”

She knows that to be untrue; they both survived the Long Night.  She grounds herself again.  “Who told you that?”

“The man who stole his sword,” says one of the men, and his companions start guffawing.

“What man?”

“Some traveller passing through town.  Told us all about it.  Lost his hand in the fight but lived to tell the tale.  Took the Kingslayer’s sword as he lay dead.”

Brienne is overcome with the urge to roll her eyes, as the full picture finally makes itself clear to her.  Jaime must have been here, spun them this story, and as flimsy as it is she suspects it may have saved his life.

“Lost a hand, you said?”

“Aye.”

“Where did he go, this one-handed man?” 

—J|B—

The tavern’s accommodation is accessed via an external staircase, and the frigid air outside gives Brienne pause.  She has eaten, finally, though it feels like lead in her stomach, and has given up the debate with the innkeeper about somewhere to sleep.  Now that she knows Jaime is here, she is wide awake again.

She climbs the old stone staircase and makes her way to the furthest room.  A light still burns from within.  She knocks on the heavy door and is flooded with relief when his voice calls back, though it is quickly replaced by irritation, which she tries to curb through relentless banging against the door.  She can hear him grumbling as he reaches the door, before it suddenly opens.

“…’go away’ didn’t you under—“  He stares at her, the surprise evident on his face.  “Brienne?”

She cannot speak, not yet.  Part of her is still in disbelief that she has caught up with him so soon.  She stares back, trying to gauge his reaction to her arrival; for several long seconds he is almost unblinking with shock, too many emotions flooding his face.  Then, there is a subtle change which she recognises all too well, his eyes turning emotionless as though shutting himself away; it sparks a fury deep within her which she cannot control, and she raises a hand to slap him hard across the cheek.

It brings him back to her, at least, a flash of anger in his eyes which immediately dissipates to acceptance.

“I don’t need to ask what I did to deserve that,” he comments, raising a hand to his face.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break your nose, you bastard.”

With that, she pushes past him into the room, ignoring his protests.  He pulls the door closed behind her, trying to retain the meagre heat within the small space.  His cheek is stinging from the impact of her palm, the unexpected assault in direct opposition to the last time her hands had been on his face.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he demands.

“Trying to stop you from getting killed,” she responds directly, and his face reflects his confusion.  “What did you expect would happen?  Did you really think I’d spend the rest of my days lingering at Winterfell like some kind of war widow, mourning for you?”

“No,” he says with a frown.  “I didn’t want you to mourn me at all.”

The gravity of that hits her straight in the chest: confirmation, at last, that he did not believe he would survive, that he wanted her to think nothing of him, to make the blow so much easier to endure.

“Go back to Winterfell, Brienne,” he tells her firmly.  “This is not your war.”

“It’s not _yours_ , either.”

He deflates a little, at that, and sinks into a wooden chair by the wall.  In all of the ways he has played out this scenario, none of them involved Brienne chasing him down.  He wanted her safe in the North – safe from the war, safe from Cersei – even if it meant never seeing her again.  Now that she is here, all he can think is how much he wishes she had not run after him.

This Brienne is different to the one he left behind two nights ago.  He’s not sure he’s ever seen her so angry.  They have fought before, with words and with swords, with each other and beside each other, but her quiet, barely-tempered rage is new.  Her eyes are bright and sharp in the firelight, challenging him, and he thinks he may be able to use her anger for his own ends.  He locks himself away, calling to mind the terrible deeds of his past.

“Didn’t you listen?” he asks, his tone bitter.  “Didn’t you hear me when I told you all the things I’d done?”

“Yes,” she says.  “I heard you.  And I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t _believe_ me?  Ask Bran Stark, if you need confirmation.  He’ll tell you all about the broken tower, and what I was doing in there before I pushed him.  As for my cousin, I killed him the same night I met you.”

“I don’t believe that you’re hateful.”

Some of the simmering rage has started to dwindle and now she feels only a deep, aching sadness.  Not for herself, but for Jaime; for his belief that there is no good left in him, when she has seen it for herself.

_Nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the one you love._

His words come back to her as if from a dream.  He had been goading her then, about Renly, trying to get a reaction, and she had nearly killed him for it.  Now they seem to be the very crux of everything, because protecting her is exactly what he’s trying to do.

She approaches the chair and drops to her knees in front of him, giving him no room for escape.  The blankness of his eyes terrifies her, and she does not even know if she can get through to him, but she has not come all the way here to be deterred by his stubbornness.

“I did listen,” she tells him, “and now it’s your turn.  Jaime.  You _will_ listen to me.”  He tries to avert his gaze from hers, so she grabs his chin and forces him to look at her.  “You’ve done terrible things.  I know that.  You’ve confessed them all, at one point or another.  Whatever you may have done for… for your sister, it doesn’t change the things you’ve done for _me_.”

Some of the glassiness leaves his expression, just a little, and she starts with something simple.

“There was no massacre at Riverrun, Jaime – because I asked you to consider an alternative, and you accepted it.  We were hardly even amicable when you prevented me from being raped, even though it cost you dearly.”  She places her hand over his right wrist; his eyes close for a long moment, and when they open again there is a hint of _something_ which she cannot quite identify.  She takes it as a positive sign.  “You came back for me when you had no reason to do so, and saved me from being mauled by a bear.”

“Things that any knight worthy of the name would do,” he mutters, half-heartedly, and tries to pull out of her grip.

“I’m not finished,” she informs him, her hand tightening around his arm.  “You gave me armour and a sword and entrusted me to see Sansa and Arya safely home.  You knighted me because it was in your power to do so, with nothing to gain from it.  You fought for the living, all the way up here in the bloody North that you hate so much.”  He is staring at her now with something like wonder, and she reaches up to hold his face between her hands.  “And you came to Winterfell for _me_.  I know you did.”

In a painful echo of his parting gesture, he lifts his hand to grasp onto hers; this time, he does not let go.  He closes his eyes in defeat, his head dropping in the barest nod. 

“You’ve made me a better person,” he admits.  “If not for you, I would have had no choice but to follow my sister to the ends of the earth.  To die with her, like she always wanted.”

“There’s always a choice.”

He shakes his head, causing her hands to fall away.  “Not with Cersei.”

Jaime rises from the chair, approaching the small window to stare out into the night.  Brienne climbs to her feet, her legs numb from kneeling, but keeps her distance.  Whatever Jaime has to say, she will not overcrowd him.

“She’s poison,” he says.  “I’ve always known it, though I ignored it for years, as long as I didn’t take the brunt of it.  Tyrion knows better than anyone how awful she can be.  Sansa Stark… the horrors that girl endured at the Red Keep because of my family.  Joffrey was a nightmare made flesh, but Cersei was worse.  For years I stood by and did nothing, feigned ignorance, played to my strengths.  Tried to survive.”

Brienne moves closer, to within arm’s reach, but no further.  Jaime heaves in a breath and releases it with just enough of a shudder that her heart aches to offer comfort, but she resists, allowing him to finish.

“And then you came along,” he says, “and you changed everything.  Changed _me_.  You saw goodness in me, and I started to believe it really existed.”  He turns from the window, finally meeting her gaze, a hollow sadness in his eyes.  “I tried, Brienne.  I tried to be the good man you deserved.”

“You didn’t need to _try_ ,” she blurts out, her frustration and heartache finally bubbling over.  “Gods, Jaime, I’ve loved you for years.  _Years_.  I didn’t need you to be good, or to prove something to me.  I just needed _you_.”

He stares at her with a shocked expression, and she realises that she did not really intend to lay her feelings out so plainly.  He shakes his head, stifles an ironic laugh.

“I couldn’t even do that right.”

She steps forward, into his space, grasps him by the arms.  “Stop it.”

“Stop _what_?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

For the briefest of moments, he seems more like himself.  “I’m glad one of us does.”

Brienne indulges in the temptation to roll her eyes, and releases his arms, though she does not move away.

“You think you’re the only person who can kill Cersei without thousands of lives being lost in the process.  Believe me, Lady Sansa and I share the same fear as to what this war will cost.  But that doesn’t mean you have to die with her, Jaime.  Your life is worth more than that.”

“I can name several people who might disagree with you.”

“Those people don’t know you.  They don’t care about you.  I’m sure your brother might have some objections if you die; it’s obvious how much he loves you.”

At the mention of Tyrion, something alters in Jaime’s face; the wall of self-loathing is slowly falling away.  Brienne can see daylight through the cracks, and she keeps pushing, raising her hands to his face so he cannot look away from her.

“If you won’t live for Tyrion, live for _me_ , Jaime.  I have never asked for anything from you that you have not freely given, but I must insist on being selfish about this.  I _love_ you, and I refuse to live without you.”

The confession feels realer, more powerful, in the present, rather than an admission of past feelings.  Jaime’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears, the realisation washing over him of just how badly he has approached things, how much easier it would have been to just stay in Winterfell and let the two mad queens destroy each other.  His aim had been to prevent collateral damage, but the lives in Kings Landing seem meaningless in comparison to Brienne, to the few short weeks they spent together.  He had tasted pure happiness for the first time in his life, with no conditions, no caveats, no secrecy… and the certainty that it would end was so overwhelming that he sought to orchestrate it himself.

He did not anticipate Brienne’s tenacity, nor her belief in him, and now he is in awe of it.

He leans forward, his arms encircling her waist in a tight embrace as he buries his face in her shoulder; her hands fall away from his face to wrap around his upper body; he breathes her in, the scent of leather and horse and frost and something else that is inexplicably, uniquely her, and exhales with a shudder that wracks his entire frame.  He does not feel able to speak, but there are too many words in his head vying for release, so he utters them in a jumbled stream.

“Brienne, I’m _sorry_ ; I’m so sorry; I know you can’t forgive me but _please_ , Brienne, please believe me; I only hurt you to try and save you; I didn’t want you to _follow_ me, I wanted you safe in the north, but I’m so glad you did; Gods, I love you, I _love_ you.”

She feels tears stinging her eyes and wills them away, clutching tighter to Jaime for a few seconds until he catches his breath again.    He starts to pull away and she lets him go, but a moment later he reaches up to caress her face.

“I should have told you that as soon as I arrived at Winterfell,” he admits quietly.  “I really am sorry, Brienne.  For everything.”

“Jaime, I…  I knew it the moment you laid your sword on my shoulders.  I knew what you meant by it, and it would have been enough.  Fighting beside you would have been enough.  I didn’t expect…”  She sighs.  “You broke my heart.  _Intentionally._   I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

He drops his hand again.  “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, for that.  My only defence is that I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I thought you’d left me for her.”

“I know.  I… I would have gone back to Winterfell, if I’d managed to survive.”

“So come back,” she says, without thinking, and then reaffirms it:  “Come back with me.”  He starts to protest, and she interrupts him.  “I didn’t ride all the way here just to watch you walk away from me again, Jaime.  Either I go with you to Kings Landing and we finish this together, or you come with me to Winterfell and let your sister and the Dragon Queen obliterate each other without your help.”

_There’s always a choice._ Her earlier words come back to him.  Until this moment, he did not truly believe there was any other path to follow but the one ahead of him; it had never occurred to him to go _back_.  The thought of Brienne accompanying him to Kings Landing makes him sick with fear, knowing with absolute certainty that her life will be at risk; but the thought of allowing the war to continue, Daenerys with her dragon, Cersei with her wildfire, transports him back in time to the last time he’d had to make such a judgement: the life of a king for the lives of so many others.

Brienne can sense his inner turmoil.  “You don’t have to decide now,” she says.  “Let me know in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“I’m trusting you not to run away from me, Jaime,” she says in a warning tone.  “And if you do, I’ll just come after you.”

“I won’t run off,” he promises.

She nods, satisfied, and heads towards the door; she is poised to open it when Jaime follows, his hand reaching gently for hers.

“Stay.”

She does not turn around immediately.  A part of her wants to refuse, as he had refused only days before, but she is not vindictive by nature.  He must realise her misgivings, because his hand tightens around hers and he takes a step closer, hesitating mere inches behind her.  His head drops to between her shoulder-blades, cushioned by the fur against her back, before he lifts it again.

“Please.”

She turns, their hands dropping apart.  “Give me a reason why I should,” she challenges him.

“Because I’m an imbecile who can’t see a good thing when it’s in front of him,” he responds immediately.  “Because I’ve spent two whole days giving myself perfectly good excuses not to turn around and head straight back to Winterfell, whilst missing you terribly the whole time.  And because it’s bloody _freezing_ in here.”

Despite herself, she has to bite back an amused smile at him echoing his words from that night.

“If nothing else, you can be sure I won’t disappear,” he adds.

“It didn’t stop you last time,” she mutters, and immediately regrets it when his face becomes downcast again.

“Brienne…”

“All right,” she says.  “But I need a decision by morning, Jaime.  I’m not staying in this place any longer than I have to.”

His entire demeanour relaxes in relief at her agreement, and he reaches out again to pull her away from the door, his hand grasping for her arm.  As she steps forward, he notices for the first time since her arrival that she is not wearing her armour, only the leather outer-wear that she dons during the evenings, after training and work for the day are finished.  There is a slightly haggard appearance to her face, dark circles under her eyes.

“Gods, Brienne, you look _exhausted._ And where is your armour?  Are you mad, travelling the Kings Road like this?”

“I left in a hurry,” she explains, suddenly realising just how tired she is now that Jaime has pointed it out.  “Less than a day after you’d gone.  There really wasn’t time to prepare.  I’ve been travelling non-stop, until I got here.”

“How did you even find me?”

“Your hand,” she says.  “At the side of the road.  I found the tavern by chance, and heard some men talking about the Kingslayer.”  She frowns at him.  “What sort of ridiculous tale did you tell them?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head and tugging her towards the small bed in the corner of the room.  “Come on, you need to sleep, and in all honesty so do I.”

She is too weary to protest, and merely follows in silence.  Jaime removes his own furs, shivering against the chill of the room, the fire practically embers by now, and arranges them on the bed.  Brienne follows suit, though her fingers feel sluggish with tiredness and she struggles with the clasp for a moment, before it finally yields.

Jaime stretches out along the narrow berth, a layer of fur between himself and the wall, and reaches for Brienne’s hand, encouraging her to join him.  When she settles beside him, he arranges the remaining furs over them, creating a cocoon of warmth.  She lies on her back, at first, but it soon proves uncomfortable in such a confined space, so she rolls to face him.  Jaime’s arm finds its way around her waist, as it always does, and he sighs in sleepy contentment.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet, you know,” she reminds him, her eyes dropping closed. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he responds, but there is no self-deprecation behind it.  “If I tell you I love you every day for the rest of our lives, might that change things?”

Her eyes snap open again, her surprised blue gaze locking to his.  “The rest of our lives?  Was that a proposal?”

He moves his shoulder in a gesture akin to a shrug.  “I suppose it was.  Do you accept?”

“I’ll have to forgive you first.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” he says, smirking as she rolls her eyes and then shuts them again decisively.

“Go to sleep, Jaime.”

“As my lady commands.” 

He obeys, eyelids closing, listening to her breathing in the silence of the room.  After a moment, she snuggles closer, seeking warmth, and his arm tightens around her.  She nuzzles her face into his shoulder and he opens his eyes for a second, pleasantly surprised, before planting a tender kiss on her forehead.

“I love you, Brienne.” 

The words are barely more than a whisper.  She does not respond, and he imagines she must have fallen asleep already, but then – “I love you, too,” and she presses her lips to his for what feels like an eternity after two days of solitude, before withdrawing with a smile.

In the morning, a choice will have to be made: south, to Kings Landing, to try and stop the war before it escalates to a massacre; or north, to Winterfell, to a future uncertain but far away from the game of power which is tearing the capital apart.

Whatever Jaime decides, one thing is certain: Brienne will be by his side every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I actually intended the story to end here, BUT! I kind of want to write both options for what could happen next. So, whether you want to see Jaime and Brienne travelling south to kick some mad queen arse (Dany, Cersei, both?), or whether you want them to live happily ever after in Winterfell (or Tarth), let me know!
> 
> I will be writing both, but I can't promise when. Until then, the story ends here as per my original intention, so I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading.
> 
> I am also hoping to write up my Best Case Scenario ending theories in story format at some point, but again, I cannot promise when. I'm not holding out much hope of 8.06 giving us anything better than 8.05 did, TBQH.


	5. ...interlude...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings* Soft Braime, warm Braime, little ball of fur...
> 
> This is a little bridging section I wanted to throw together before I write the two different endings I have in mind for this story (as per my end notes on the last chapter). A bit of post-reunion fluff / angst because we need some soft loveliness to heal the pain, right?
> 
> I'm hoping to work on my two ending scenarios over the next couple of days and get them up over the weekend at the same time as two separate chapters. I have a few ideas of what I want to include so I just need to give them time to percolate. 
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy this interlude.

He wakes well after sunrise, when the white light of morning encroaches via the small window.   Despite the intervening weeks since the Long Night, he is still surprised and relieved to see daylight.  The blizzard has picked up again, wind whistling through the gap in the window-frame and blowing particles of drifted snow into the room.  The fire has gone out and the room is bitterly cold, his breath billowing in front of him, but beneath the furs he feels content and cosy. 

Brienne has rolled away from him in the night, but her back is pressed against his chest, his right arm curled around her waist; her hand is draped lightly over his wrist, and even through the layers he had wrapped it in the previous day, he can feel her warmth.  Her knees are bent, his own slotted neatly behind hers, their similar heights ensuring that they fit together perfectly.  Her presence is so welcome, so achingly familiar, that a surge of uncontrollable emotion overwhelms him, tears springing to his eyes.  He buries his face against her neck to try and curb them, but his nose is chilly against her skin and the sudden sensation wakes her; she flinches away with a hiss.

“Cold,” she grumbles, and rolls over to face him – awkwardly, shuffling in stages, due to the cramped conditions – settling once again beneath the weight of his arm, her hands resting against the leather of his jacket.

Her face is immediately concerned, when she meets his gaze, sees the glossy shine of his eyes.

“Jaime?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says.  “Nothing’s wrong.  Everything’s _right_.”  He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.  “Thank you for coming after me.  And for staying.  And for… being here.”

She has not fully forgiven him yet, for his actions and his idiotic plan, but she can feel a smile edging onto her face and thinks it might not take quite as long as she first envisaged, if he continues to be so grateful about her changing his mind.  She nuzzles her nose against his.

“Anything else?”

“For loving me,” he adds softly, and pulls away, his eyes locking to hers.  There is something open and vulnerable in his expression; it is not unfamiliar, but she has never quite known how to interpret it, before.  “For showing me what love is supposed to feel like.” 

He does not elaborate any further on that, but she can easily work out his meaning.  Before her, before _this_ , love had been nothing more than a power play, a tool that his sister had used to manipulate everyone around her, twisted into something unrecognisable that she called devotion.  He has known nothing but Cersei for most of his life.  For little over a month, Brienne has loved him completely, selflessly, never taking anything she could not return, never expecting anything she could not receive.  It only now occurs to her what a revelation that must have been.

She reaches up to touch his face, sweeping some errant hair out of his eyes before gently tracing his jaw with her fingertips; he presses a kiss to the soft pad of her thumb when it brushes against his mouth.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says.  “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“You didn’t deserve _her_ , either,” she points out.  No matter how many awful things he may have done, they did not permit his sister to treat him so badly.

A moment passes between them in silence, Jaime staring at her with the same slightly disbelieving expression as when he had first opened the door to find her standing there.  She barely has time to move her hand out of the way as he leans towards her and captures her mouth, kissing her deeply; the surprised noise that emerges from her throat turns into a low hum of approval.  His arm tightens around her waist, his legs entangling together with hers to try and get closer.  He kisses her until they both run out of air, resurfacing breathlessly but determined to express the emotion which is bombarding his entire being.

“I love you.  Truly.  I promised to tell you every day, and I’m starting now.”

“You don’t need to—“

“Please, Brienne.  Let me at least try to repair the damage I caused.”

She nods, eventually, and Jaime’s relief is palpable.  Minutes pass, no words exchanged between them, as they listen to the wind howling outside the window, the rhythmic drip coming from the corner of the room where the roof is not quite watertight.  Neither of them have any particular desire to leave the warmth of the furs, of each other, but their departure is inevitable even if the destination is not yet decided.

Eventually, reluctantly, Brienne breaks the silence.

“We need to go, Jaime.”

“I know,” he says with a sad sigh.

“Have you come to a decision?”

There is a hint of anguish on his face.  “Do you promise to stand by me, no matter what I choose?”

“Yes.  I promise.  Whatever you decide, we stay together.”

He nods, lets out a breath which is more of a shudder, and deliberates for a few more seconds as he weighs up his options.  To go south, to go north; to join the fight, or flee from it; almost inevitable death but the chance to fight with Brienne once more, or a life together to begin anew.

Eventually, the choice is clear.  He kisses her again, brief and reaffirming, and tells her the direction he has chosen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> North, south, which will it be?
> 
> You decide - and "both" is always an option. ;)
> 
> For South: go to chapter 6.  
> For North: go to chapter 8.


	6. South I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those who wanted Jaime and Brienne to head to Kings Landing to join the war – this is for you. I’ve tried to incorporate – in both this and the alternative “North” option, which is coming later – some elements that I would have liked to see happen in the show, whilst framing it within the canon of episode 8.05 with a few divergences. That means nothing much changes for Daenerys, I’m afraid.
> 
> Also, apologies that I couldn’t get this posted sooner (and that I haven’t written the “North” chapter yet; my original intention was to post both at the same time) – real life decided to get in the way for a day or so and may well do again in the near future, but I am determined to finish this story.
> 
> My heart needed a lot of healing after the finale (no, YOU’RE crying) and there is probably going to be angst as a result, but there’ll be a happy ending eventually no matter which direction they go.
> 
> This ended up so long I had to split it into two parts, and whilst the second ‘half’ is a bit shorter, it comes after a nice little cliffhanger just to whet your appetite. ;)
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and please enjoy.

The journey to the boundary of Kings Landing is long and arduous, at least three weeks on horseback.  They catch rest where they can – whether in taverns or abandoned farmhouses – and some time is spent finding an armoury so that Brienne is better equipped for their arrival in the city.  The second-hand plates are ill-fitting, heavy and uncomfortable, compared to the cobalt armour Jaime had gifted her so many years ago, but they will suffice.

Along the way, they formulate a plan.  It will not be easy gaining access to the city.  Entering via Daenerys’s camp will only delay matters; the Dragon Queen will likely interrogate Jaime as to his actions, and Tyrion will only try and talk him around.  It is Brienne who suggests the alternative: that she pretends to be his captive, brought to the Red Keep with the valuable information she must surely hold about Daenerys’s plans.  Jaime is reluctant, knowing without any doubt that Brienne will see the inside of a dungeon before they can get anywhere near Cersei.  She reassures him that she can easily take on a pair of guards once they are away from prying eyes, and clear the way for an escape whilst he deals with his sister.

Jaime does not like the plan, but when he fails to come up with any better option, he unhappily agrees. 

With half a day’s travel remaining until they reach Kings Landing, they pause for a while, resting the horses and filling their stomachs.  Before they leave, Brienne quietly reaches into her pack to retrieve his golden hand.  He has not worn it since leaving the dilapidated tavern where she found him.  It weighs down his heart as much as it does his arm, but without it he does not stand a chance of getting close to the Queen.

He struggles with the fastenings, unpractised after so many days without it, and Brienne helps to secure it to his arm.  He stills her fingers with his remaining hand before she can pull away, and her focus shifts away from the task to meet his gaze.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.  “There are so many things that could go wrong.”

“I promised you we would stay together,” she reminds him.  “No matter what happens.  I’m not letting you go alone, Jaime.”

He knows there is no point in arguing with her.  With a nod, he releases her hand, then steps forward until he can rest his forehead against hers.

“Take out the guards,” he reminds her.  “Stay hidden.  Don’t follow me.  I’ll find you when it’s done.”

“But—“

“ _Brienne_ , listen to me.”  He pulls back, so she can see how serious he is.  “If you try to get close to my sister, we’ll both be worse than dead.  I’ll talk to the guards, tell them I want to speak to her in private and give her the message myself.”

“She’ll kill you.”

“Not if I kill her first.”

“What about the Mountain?”

“If I can gain her trust, she’ll send him away.”

Brienne searches his face, her own expression troubled.  “And if you can’t?”

He reaches for her hand, his eyes imploring.  “Please, just trust me.”

She should not, after his actions two sennights ago, but she has to concede that Jaime knows his sister better than anyone else.  During the battle for Winterfell, she trusted him with her life, and he did not fail her; trusting him with her heart was an entirely different matter.  This time, the task ahead is so much bigger: if he succeeds, the war will be over, and if he does not…

She has no choice but to have faith in him, but there is a lingering doubt still bothering her.

“You said she wanted you to die together.”

“I have no desire to die,” he informs her, “with my sister or otherwise.  You asked me to live, and that is what I intend to do.”

He steps forward, holding her gaze for a second before pressing his mouth to hers, imparting through actions what he has always, somehow, failed to communicate with words.  Her right hand tightens around his, her left rising to touch his face, lingering as they separate again.

“I am coming back to you, Brienne.  I promise.  When all of this is over, we’ll go wherever you wish.  Kings Landing, Winterfell, even beyond the Wall if it makes you happy.  I have no particular affinity for Casterly Rock, but I think you’d like it—“

“Tarth,” she says without hesitation.  “If Lady Sansa is agreeable, if she… releases me from her service after the war.  I’d like to go home.”

He remembers sailing past the so-called Sapphire Isle, a tiny green mass surrounded by clear waters; even then, he had wondered at the place Brienne had once called home.

“Tarth,” he confirms with a nod.  “Yes, I think I’d like to see it.”

She had half-expected him to refuse, and is pleasantly surprised by his immediate agreement.  She nods in return, and they step away from each other.  A moment of silence passes between them, before they return to their respective mounts and continue towards the capital.

—J|B—

The plan goes to all seven Hells the moment the city comes into view; they climb the prow of a hill and the sight which greets them makes their blood run cold.

The sky is thick with smoke as the city burns from dragon fire; Drogon is circling overhead, his terrible shrieking audible even from their position some miles away, another plume of orange flame bursting forth from his throat to set the towns below alight.  Elsewhere in the city, a bright green explosion ignites a chain reaction, decimating what little had not been destroyed already.  For several seconds, they are both motionless with shock, unable to comprehend what is happening. 

Jaime had anticipated the wildfire, of course: the caches stored by old King Aerys had never been removed, some of them never even _found_.  His greatest fear was that Cersei would use it to try and win the war, to thin out the enemy as they approached without any care for the consequences; for some reason, it had not occurred to him that dragon fire might also set it off.  He was right to be suspicious of Daenerys; of the madness running in her blood.

He kicks his horse back into action, galloping down the hill; it takes a moment for Brienne to follow, driving her faster steed to catch up with him until she draws level.  She does not ask what their next move is going to be, hoping that Jaime will come up with something by the time they reach the city walls.

By the time they arrive, the smell of smoke is overwhelming, cloying in the air, the sound of screaming vying against the crackle of the flames.  The heat and noise is enough to frighten Jaime’s horse and it bucks with a terrified whinny, almost throwing him off as Brienne pulls up beside him.  He tries to calm the beast, but they both know they can go no further on horseback.

The city’s walls are nothing but a crumbling pile of stone, and beyond them are the ruined carcasses of buildings, the streets scattered with blackened corpses.  The clamour of fighting can still be heard deeper within the city.

The Red Keep remains standing, for now; there is still a chance to end it.

Jaime takes a step forward but finds himself halted, Brienne’s hand gripping urgently to his arm.

“What are you _doing_?”

“I can still finish this,” he tells her.  “If I can just—“

“Jaime, the city is _burning_.  It’s already finished.”

“Not while Cersei lives.  If she’s dead, Daenerys will stop.  She _has_ to stop.”

She recognises that look of steely determination on his face, and knows there will be no convincing him.  Her grip on his arm relents.  “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I promised to stand by you.  We do this together, or not at all.”

He stares at her, his face fluctuating between bafflement and wonder, before melting into adoration.  “Gods, I love you, you infuriating woman.”

She rolls her eyes.  “Priorities, Jaime.  What’s the plan?”

—J|B—

They pick their way through the rubble and debris towards the Red Keep, staying close together.  Jaime knows Kings Landing like the back of his hand; there are wildfire caches everywhere and he would rather avoid them.  With so much of the city destroyed, the place is like a labyrinth, familiar shortcuts blocked off and new ones suddenly created.  It becomes apparent that Drogon is slowly circling in towards the Red Keep; Daenerys is giving her enemy a chance to concede.

As they draw closer, the dragon swoops low overhead before pulling up again, and with an almighty roar it targets the castle with its deadly breath; the ground shakes as though hit by an earthquake.  Brienne has fallen behind, her gaze fixed on the carnage with a look of horror, as Jaime presses on ahead.  Drogon strikes again and the aftershock causes a nearby building to collapse.

Brienne staggers backwards and calls to Jaime – “Watch out!” – giving him just enough time to leap clear of the falling stones in the other direction.  When the dust settles, there is an impenetrable pile of rubble between them.

Coughing from mortar dust, Jaime calls out to her and can barely hear her response, but knows she is alive on the other side.  He shouts an instruction for her to head for the beach, where the tunnels emerge, but is not sure if she can hear him over the din.  When she does not respond, he has no choice but to continue and hope to find her alive after it’s over.

By the time he reaches the Red Keep, there is barely anything left of it.  Flames as tall as trees create an inferno within what remains of the walls, the floors rumbling ominously every time Drogon circles the building.  The map room – the last place he had seen his sister – is covered in ash and debris, the painted floor almost unrecognisable, a great crack rending its surface.  The foundations shudder and he presses onwards, heading up to the fortified tower where Cersei can surely be found.

Along the way, he spies the broken corpse of Maester Qyburn, his head caved in and his body at an awkward angle; Jaime does not care to find out what happened, though it is clearly the handiwork of Ser Gregor.

When he finally reaches the top of the tower, there are no guards to be found, no Mountain, only a door which he finds to be unlocked.  Pushing it open and entering the room, the smell of smoke is overwhelming, rising up from the burning ruins below.  Daenerys has destroyed almost the entirety of the castle by now, still waiting for her enemy to yield.  A massive shadow briefly casts the room into darkness as Drogon circles the tower, screeching in a way that always chills Jaime’s blood.  Once the darkness clears again he finally spies his sister, silhouetted against the window where she is watching the carnage unfold.

His reaches across to Widow’s Wail, his hand tightening around the hilt as he steps forward.

“I wondered how long it would take you, brother,” she says, without turning around.  “I knew you’d come back to me.”

He does not immediately respond, just continues to approach with measured steps, watching her carefully.

“Cersei, it’s over.  Look around you.  The city is decimated, you have no fleet, no army.  No _subjects_.”

“I still have the _throne_ ,” she tells him, finally turning around.  “The Dragon Queen can prise it from my cold, dead hands.”

“Is that really what you want?” he asks.

“If my choice is between handing over the seat of power to another crazed Targaryen, or dying for it…  I choose death.”

Her face is almost expressionless, but her eyes hold a certain hauntedness which he has not seen for years.  She knows she is defeated, but is too proud and stubborn to admit it.  Jaime is struck by an optimism that he might be able to change things without the need for more bloodshed.  He releases the sword, hoping it will not be his last mistake.

“And you, dear brother,” she continues, her tone dangerously sweet, “have you come to die with me?  How very noble of you.  I always told you we would leave this world the same way we entered it.”

“No,” he says.  “I came here to… to try and save you.  To convince you to give up the fight.”

“You’re lying.  You came here to kill me.”  She levels her gaze on him, silently challenging.  “That’s what you _do_ , isn’t it?  _Kingslayer_?”

Cersei has never known the truth behind his actions that day; only one other person is aware of them, and _her_ face is what fills his mind when the hated nickname is spoken.  When he had left Winterfell, left Brienne, he had summoned to mind every despicable deed he had ever performed for the sake of his family, so that he could die as he had lived: mired in sin at his sister’s side.  But everything has changed now: he wants to live.  He does not need to be an evil man, the killer of another monarch; he can be the opposite.  He does not have Tyrion’s way with words, nor his clever mind, but he knows his twin better than anyone; she fears death as much as any other mortal.

“You don’t want to die,” he says.  “I know you don’t.  Not if there’s any way to end this peacefully.”

She laughs.  “Peacefully?  I think we’ve gone beyond that.”

“Cersei, _please_.  There’ll be nothing left if you let this continue.”

“Let the Dragon Queen rule over ashes, if that is what she wants.  I will not yield.”

The tower grows dark again as Drogon suddenly descends, his immense wings billowing as he hovers, level with the tower.  Almost as though Cersei’s words have summoned her, Daenerys stares through the window from her distant position, her steely gaze fixing to the Lannister siblings and narrowing in contempt.  Jaime realises immediately what it must look like in Daenerys’s eyes: a betrayal, a defection back to the enemy.

Several seconds pass in silence before the dragon rises again, soaring off into the sky with an ear-piercing shriek.  By Jaime’s estimation, they have only a few short minutes before the tower is destroyed: not enough time to convince Cersei before they both burn.

Acting instinctively, he grabs her hand and drags her after him.  She resists, struggling against his grip but unable to overpower him, stumbling behind as he descends the stairs.  He ignores her protests and continues on, trying to find an exit.  The further they move, the quieter Cersei becomes, as the devastation of the castle becomes apparent, as the flames lick at the broken walls.  _Good_ , he thinks; _if she’s scared, she’ll listen._

Every possible way out is blocked and he has no alternative but to head for the tunnels, still towing Cersei behind him.  She has stopped struggling and now matches his pace, her other hand gripping his arm tightly.

The foundations shake again as Drogon finally ignites the tower and it comes crashing down; even so far underground, the beast’s great roar is overpowering.  By the time they reach the crypts, the tunnels have already started to cave in, every possible exit blocked.  If there was time, he could probably find a way through, but there is an ominous crack in the vaulted ceiling overhead and it looks like to collapse at any second.

Cersei tugs on his hand, desperation edging onto her face.

“You were right, Jaime.  I don’t want to die.  Not here, not like this.”

He shakes out of her grasp and heads towards one of the blocked arches, drawn by a tiny glint of daylight.

“I want to live,” she calls after him, and her voice is pleading and terrified, enough that it makes him turn back to her.  Her arms are wrapped around her stomach.  “I want our _child_ to live.”

He had almost forgotten about the child; the bargaining tool she had tried to sell to the highest bidder.  Bitterness rises like bile in his throat, vying against hope.

“Is it mine?” he asks with more contempt than he intended.  “Not that Greyjoy pirate’s bastard?”

She shakes her head, tears springing to her eyes: no longer a formidable queen but the scared little girl he remembers from childhood, the girl who was bitten by a harmless snake and thought she was going to die.  Except that girl, he remembers, was not always so vulnerable; when it came to their little brother she was worse than a tyrant.  She is their father’s daughter in every way: cold and calculating, but fiercely loyal when it comes to family, as long as that family can be controlled.

He feels that control now, seeping into his skin, wrapping cold tendrils around his heart which choke as much as they tug.  He mistook it, before, as proof that they were meant to be together; an irresistible pull that could not be denied.  Now it makes his flesh crawl.

(Brienne’s love suffuses his entire being with warmth; her touch is a balm for his heart; she pushes towards him rather than pulling; her eyes are only ever full of truth, depthless blue oceans where his sister’s are shallow green lakes.)

“Answer me,” he commands.

“It’s _yours_.  I promise you—“

He comes up in front of her and grips her arms, unwinding them from around her torso.  The light in the crypt is dim, but even in the shadows it’s obvious.  Her stomach is flat – much flatter than it should be.  He’s been gone for nearly five months.  King Robert may have been oblivious to the changes his Queen’s body went through, but Jaime is _not_.  Three illegitimate children later, he knows how Cersei grows almost as well as she does.

The realisation hits him like a dagger to the gut; there was never any child to speak of.

“You lied to me.”

“No… Jaime, _no_ , I didn’t.  The… the babe is just smaller than it should be.”

She looks him in the eyes even as the untruth falls from her lips.  He lets go of her arms, taking a step back away from her.  The crypt rumbles from another attack, making them both unsteady on their feet, and Cersei reaches out blindly, latching onto his arm.

“Stop lying,” he implores, shaking out of her grasp.  “Now, at the end of everything, please just _stop lying._ ”

She bites her lip to stop herself from sobbing, swallows the lump in her throat, and bows her head.  “I thought it would keep you close to me.  I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Then you should have kept your promise and gone north,” he says, well aware of how petulant it sounds, as though she had broken some silly childhood vow and not potentially doomed half a continent.

“Like you did?”

“Yes.  Like I did.  One man, no army, and I fought the dead and survived.  Think how much easier that would have been with a thousand men at my disposal.”

“But I’d lost you before then, hadn’t I, Jaime?” she challenges him, though there is no anger or jealousy in her tone.  “I saw you, at the Dragon Pit.  I saw you _both_.”

“Is this what you want to hear to bring you comfort in your last moments?  To know that you were not the sole recipient of my attention?  Do you really want your final emotion in the world to be hatred?  Jealousy?  Disappointment?”

“You asked me to tell you the truth.  The very least you can do is return the favour.”

An almighty crack sounds overhead and the split in the ceiling widens, depositing dust and broken stones.  Cersei stands firm, determined to hear an answer, and he knows she is right: she deserves to know the truth, the real reason he had gone to Winterfell.

“Since we’re both about to die,” he says, “yes – I rode North for _her_.  To have a chance to live before the whole world turned to shit.”

“And then you came back home, to die with me.”  The details seem irrelevant now, and he allows Cersei to interpret his silence in whatever way she sees fit.  It doesn’t matter any more.  “Because you still love me.”

She moves towards him, reaching out, but he evades her, holding her at arm’s length.

“You are my _sister_ ; of course I love you.  But you’ve never really loved me, have you?  Not in the same way.”  He shakes his head sadly.  “This terrible thing between us has poisoned us both.  Poisoned our children, our entire family.  It should have ended years ago.”

The imploring expression on her face suddenly darkens; his sweet sister transforming into the stubborn queen who only minutes before had been standing proudly in her ivory tower, waiting for a fiery death.  It’s a change he recognises all too well, and under any other circumstances he would fear the inevitable outcome.  But there’s nothing she can do or say to hurt him, or anyone else; in a few moments it will all be over.  He lets go of her arms, takes a step back, away from her.

“Is that why you chose her, Jaime?  That great lumbering beast of a woman?  She doesn’t know you like I do.  _Nobody_ does.”

“No,” he tells her, “she knows me better than I have ever known myself.  Better than you ever will.  Brienne sees goodness, where you see nothing but hatred.”

“Such a pity,” she muses.  “I would have loved to see her face when she finds you dead beside me.”

As she speaks, the ground begins to shake beneath them as the ceiling starts to cave in, broken bricks and stone blocks tumbling to the ground.  Daylight streams into the darkened crypt as the crack above becomes a gaping hole, ash falling down like fine snow to scatter on the uneven ground.  Jaime takes another step back; Cersei lunges, grabbing for his arm to pull him forward.

“She will not have you.  She _will not_.”

They struggle back and forth, her fingers squeezed in an iron grip around his right forearm with a strength he did not believe her capable of; he pulls back and she pulls him towards her, under the collapsing ceiling.  How long it continues, he cannot say, his thoughts returning only to Brienne; _be safe, be alive, please Gods don’t try to find me, I love you, I love you._   The clatter of falling stones becomes a deafening cacophony; Cersei’s hand slips down and down until she is clinging desperately to his golden hand; the straps break and his own momentum sends him backwards.

Then, there is only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY.
> 
> (It's not over; don't panic.)


	7. South II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two. More angst, and some fluff.
> 
> Enjoy!

At the beach, Brienne finds a small boat and the bled-out body of Euron Greyjoy, and nothing else.

She had barely heard Jaime’s frantically shouted instructions from the other side of the collapsed building, but the words “beach” and “tunnels” were clear enough.  Her first instinct was to try and follow him, but with so much of the city destroyed she knew it would be futile.  In truth, it had been so long since her last visit to the capital that she could barely remember the way to the shoreline, either.  Nonetheless, growing up on an island had imbued her with a certain instinct about finding the sea; it had taken her some time, navigating a strange city with no discernible landmarks to speak of any more, but finally the smell of brine had begun to overtake the smoke, and soon enough she found the cliffs.

The tunnel entrance is well hidden among the rocks, and she only thinks to look when she sees the boat.  With the Iron Fleet destroyed, she surmises that Euron was trying to gain entry to the Red Keep to join the Queen, only to die on the shore from his injuries.

She waits for Jaime, pacing skittishly outside the jagged rocks at the tunnel entrance.  When the tower is razed to the ground, and there is still no sign of him, she makes the decision to go and find him.

The tunnels grow dark quickly as they descend underground and Brienne has no torch to guide her; she carefully feels her way along the wall, nearly turning her ankle on the uneven floor, grazing her head on a protruding rock.  After what feels like miles, a tiny pinprick of light emerges ahead; as she draws closer she realises the entrance to the crypt has been blocked by rubble.  She pushes one of the rocks experimentally, heartened when it tumbles through the gap, and then sets to clearing a way through, using Oathkeeper to lever the larger stones out of the way.

Her strength is waning by the time she makes a big enough gap to climb through, and on the other side she half-stumbles, half-slides down the pile of remaining debris, coughing as a cloud of dust and ash stirs up in her wake.  She struggles to her feet, using the sword to bear her weight before sheathing it again, and surveys the damage.

The ceiling of the room has completely gone; the pile of stones beneath is blanketed with a delicate layer of ash, the particles catching what little sunlight can peek through the thick smoke still cloying the air.  A quick visual scan of the room informs Brienne that every exit to the crypt has been blocked, and she briefly wonders if Jaime even made it this far.  The rest of the castle is barely standing, and she clings to a desperate hope that he managed to escape before it fell to ruin; that he is somewhere in the city, trying to make his way to her.

The sunlight glints off some foreign object within the debris, and her hope evaporates.

She crosses the room in a few strides, stopping short with a strangled noise as the golden hand comes into view.  She clambers over the stones, falling to her knees, her hands shaking as she reaches for first one block, then another, then another, casting them off to the sides.  She reveals another, smaller hand clutching desperately to the golden digits, the verdant crimson of a dress, the rest of the Queen slowly emerging: battered and broken and very clearly dead.

In a panic, Brienne moves more of the pile out of the way, desperately searching for Jaime; she can barely see through the tears in her eyes, her vision blurring as she frantically dislodges stone after stone, finding nothing but more of their kin.

She is vaguely aware of heavy footsteps behind her – Ser Davos, she assumes, perhaps Jon Snow, or one of the Unsullied, coming to inspect the damage; or a Lannister guard, coming to kill her – and she ignores them as she continues in her task.  A hand drops heavily to her shoulder and she shrugs it off; it lands again, this time gripping harder, and she pulls away sharply.

“Leave me _be_!”

The third time, the hand grips and does not relent, wrenching her away from the carnage; an arm wraps around her midriff to drag her back.  She struggles, trying to prise her assailant’s limb from her body, but it only tightens.

“Let go of me!”

“Brienne, stop.  It’s _me._ ”

The voice at her back is so familiar that all of the fight drains out of her; she realises that there is no hand attached to the arm which is encircling her.  In her shock, she cannot move; her body will not obey her commands; her arms hang limp at her sides.  The hand at her shoulder presses lightly to steady her, turning her gently around, the handless arm sliding around her waist.

Jaime’s face swims in front of her, grey from dust and ash, a bruise blooming on his right temple, but blessedly _alive_ , and she crumbles.  She grips both of his shoulders to tug him into her embrace, arms snaking up and over, as his own cling tightly around her waist, his left hand clawing for purchase against the armour at her back.  She buries her face against his neck and _sobs_ , her entire body shaking; she feels a wetness against her own neck and realises Jaime is crying also, and a deep protective instinct causes her to thread the fingers of one hand into his hair, offering comfort as best she can, as though he did not just terrify the life out of her mere seconds ago.

When she finally regains control of her breathing, if not entirely her emotions, she extricates herself slightly from his grip, both of her hands moving to frame his face.  She cannot stop the tears from flowing, and cannot bring herself to care.

“Jaime…  _how_?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  “I don’t know.”  The last thing he remembers is the gold hand detaching, Cersei falling away from him into the tumbling stones as he staggered backwards, scrambling for safety before the world went black.  He came around beneath a fallen pillar that had wedged against the wall, mere inches away from crushing him, a headache slowly blossoming in his skull and the not-so-distant sound of rocks being scattered.

When he opens his eyes again, he takes in the sight of Brienne: tear tracks running clear through the dust on her face, a tiny rivulet of blood emanating from a nasty bump on her forehead, but the rest of her unharmed.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.  “You could have been _killed_.”

“I waited,” she explains, her hands dropping away and then raising to wipe the tears from her face as she finally manages to curb them.  “On the beach, like you told me.  But when you didn’t come out and I saw the tower collapse…  I couldn’t just stand there and do _nothing_.”

There is silence overhead, he realises; no more fearsome shrieking and flapping of wings.  “Is it over?  Has Daenerys—?“

“There’s practically nothing left; the city is destroyed.  And your sister…”

Brienne’s gaze flits briefly to the body in the rubble and Jaime moves away from her, taking a step towards the pile.

Cersei looks peaceful, he thinks; despite the fact that every bone in her body must be broken, there is no obvious external damage; she could almost be asleep.  He kneels, bows his head respectfully, reaches out to gently sweep the hair from her face with a shaking hand.

Brienne does not want to watch, but cannot tear herself away.  Jaime’s grief is palpable but she hesitates to offer comfort or words of reassurance, entirely unsure how to approach such a situation.

“We need to cover her,” he says quietly, and carefully extracts the golden hand from Cersei’s now-loose grip.  He sets it down and then works to move the stones again, interring his sister beneath the rubble once more.  He makes slow progress one-handed and Brienne silently moves to assist him.

“I couldn’t kill her,” he admits as they work.  “I tried to convince her to give up, but she wouldn’t listen.  I thought, if I could get her to safety, if she could see what was happening in the city, she would do the right thing.”  The body is completely covered now, and he pauses, drawing in a breath as the reality finally dawns on him.  “We were trapped in here.  I honestly though we would both die.”

Brienne stands, placing a comforting hand on his right shoulder.  He reaches across his chest to place his left hand over hers, squeezing her fingers..

“Daenerys saw us,” he explains, “in the tower.  She thinks I betrayed her, and if she finds out I survived…”

“What do you want to do?”

He rises to his feet unsteadily, his joints screaming for respite; he takes up the golden hand, but does not reattach it to his arm.

“I want to live,” he says simply.  “I want to stay with you.”

“We can’t go back to Winterfell.  If Daenerys is after your head, it won’t be safe for you there.  And we can’t stay here.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment, before a smile edges onto his face.  “What about Tarth?”

—J|B—

It seems an injustice, somehow, that they should be separated now after everything; Brienne feels the unfairness of it twisting in her gut, knowing that the Dragon Queen will never believe that Jaime’s intentions were honourable.  The only option available is for Jaime to sail for Tarth: alone.  Brienne must return to Winterfell, protect Lady Sansa and perform her duty until such time as the war is finally over and she is released from service.  She will send a raven ahead to forewarn her father, of course, and a carefully written message for Tyrion, but nobody else must know that Jaime lives.

They hesitate near the tiny rowboat on the shore, and Jaime passes her the golden hand.

“Take this,” he says, “and gift it to some poor soul in the city.”

She understands perfectly: find an unrecognisable blackened corpse and disguise it as the Kingslayer.  Jaime Lannister will no longer exist; he will have perished during Daenerys’s reign of fire as his sister was crushed by the Red Keep.

Brienne nods, trying to keep her emotions in check; saying goodbye has never been easy, and it has never been this difficult.  Their last parting had left her sobbing and heart-broken, and she fears this one will be similar, though perhaps for different reasons.

“I will write,” she promises.  “I know you won’t be able to respond, but…”

“But your father can,” he reminds her, and the implication is clear.  Nobody will suspect correspondence between a doting father and his only daughter, especially after the war is done.  Nobody will suspect that the letters are from someone else.

“Jaime, I…”

She cannot speak, her throat closing over.  He quietens her softly and steps forward, gathering her into his arms.  She clings to him tightly and wills the tears away.

“I will come back to you,” she promises, in an echo of his words to her before they had arrived in Kings Landing.  “As soon as I can.”

“That would be preferable,” he says in a lightly jovial tone.  “I’m quite old, you know.”

She clicks her tongue at his sarcasm and pulls away, but the retort she would usually respond with is suddenly elusive; she has never been able to extract humour from dire situations in the same way as Jaime.

“It shouldn’t be more than a few months,” is all she can say, cursing herself for sounding so practical about it when it feels as though her heart is being crushed all over again.  At least this time, they both know the absence will only be temporary. 

“How long should I wait before I ask your father for your hand?” he asks, entirely seriously, and Brienne can only stare at him.  “Make no mistake, wench – I’m marrying you as soon as your ship lands.”

She stammers uselessly, unable to verbalise her rambling thoughts, and Jaime reaches up to caress her face, silencing her with a thumb against her mouth.

“Do you know what my last thought was,” he asks, “when I was so sure I would die?”  Brienne shakes her head.  “It was _you_ , Brienne.  Not Tyrion, not my parents, not my children, not even my beloved sister who has been half of me for my entire life and who would happily have let me perish under those stones with her.  My final thought as I was leaving the world was you.”

There are tears glittering in her eyes, though she is visibly struggling to keep them at bay; he loses himself in their bright blue depths and his soul begs to be healed.

“I am not a good man,” he tells her, though there is no self-loathing in his tone.  “Good men do not exist.  Only good deeds, and those, I can give you.  Starting today, and for the rest of my days.”

Finally, Brienne has managed to rein in her sprawling emotions, and feels able to speak.  “You shouldn’t have left me, Jaime.  No matter how good your intentions were.  I thought there was no pain greater than what I felt that night, watching you ride away.  Until today.”  She takes a breath, trying to regain some control.  “I believed you dead beneath that rubble, and it was as though all the light and joy in the world had been extinguished.  I was so sure I could never forgive you for what you did, but… if the Gods have decided you should live, I should not anger them by holding a grudge.”

“It _was_ unforgiveable,” he reminds her.  “You shouldn’t—“

“We’ve been given a second chance.  Let’s not dwell on what might have been.”

Overwhelmed, Jaime raises his right arm with the intention of encircling her face with both hands, forgetting until the very last moment, as his stump makes contact with her cheek, that the second hand is no longer there.  His first instinct is to pull it away, but Brienne’s hand comes to rest over his foreshortened wrist, her thumb rubbing gently against his skin, keeping him in place.

“You are _astonishing_ ,” he says, and she knows he means it from the awestruck look on his face.  “I don’t—“

“If you say you don’t deserve this, I will hit you.  I mean it.”

“I believe you would.  In fact, I imagine you’d knock me clean into the sand on my arse,” he guesses.  “I’d best not risk it, because I don’t think I’d be able to get up again.”

This time, she allows herself to laugh, though it comes out slightly choked from the tears still vying for release.  Despite her best efforts, they overflow, following the same dried track through the pale dust on her face.  Jaime’s thumb swipes carefully to brush away the moisture he can reach, smearing a trail across her cheekbone.  He cannot repeat the gesture on the other side, the droplets catching against his arm.

Brienne stares at him for a long moment, remembering the feel of his hand and scarred wrist against her skin, the warmth of his breath as it fans over her face, the scratch of his beard against her palms as her own hands reach for him.

“I love you,” she says, for the first time since finding him at that ramshackle tavern and finally confessing her feelings after so many months – _years_ – of holding onto them.  Jaime has repeated the sentiment to her so often over the past few days, upholding his promise of telling her at least once a day – sometimes more, trying to make up for lost time – and every time it feels a little more real.

He does not say it, now, because it does not feel like enough.  Instead, he closes the space between them and tugs her into a kiss; it is the last kiss they will share for some time, so he tries to make it count.  It starts out tender, almost chaste, before his hand sinks into her hair almost of its own volition, her fingernails scraping lightly against his face in response and her lips gently parting beneath his.  The kiss becomes deeper, all-consuming; a promise and a goodbye; they are drowning and flying all at once.

Brienne, ever more practical and sensible, is the first to pull away, though Jaime chases for one final press of his mouth to hers before she can completely escape.  She smiles against him and then gently eases him back, her hands over his heart.

His palm lingers against her face, his thumb gently tracing the line of her cheekbone as he stares at her for a long moment.

“I hate saying goodbye,” he muses.  “It always feels like the last time we’ll see each other.”

He had not said it, when he left Winterfell, she suddenly realises; perhaps he really did intend to return to her.

“Then let’s not say it,” she suggests.

His hand drops away and he nods once, solemnly, before his fingers wrap carefully around hers; he draws her hand upwards, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before releasing her again.

Jaime moves to the rowboat, now grounded from the ebb of the tide, and pushes it back towards the shoreline.  One of the oars has snapped in half, but he has no need of two of them in any case, and the broken one will serve as a makeshift paddle.  He will sail to the first port outside of Kings Landing and then barter passage onwards to Tarth.

Brienne waits until he is settled into the small craft before speaking again; the pause has given her time to regain control over her emotions and tie them down.

“Travel well, Ser Jaime.”

“And you, Ser Brienne.”

With that, the boat is caught with the tide and drawn away from the shore.  She watches for a moment as he finds a rhythm with the broken oar to propel the boat forwards, and then she turns and makes her way back up to the cliffs.

Emerging on higher ground, she chances a glimpse out to the open water, finding that Jaime has covered a fair distance already.  She remembers their parting at Riverrun; Podrick quietly rowing them both away by cover of nightfall; Jaime watching from the tower.  She saw him raise his hand in a gesture of farewell and was compelled to return it, never knowing if he was able to see her in the darkness.

Her hand raises again, only to her shoulder, even though she is certain he is not aware of her position on the cliff, the boat’s trajectory making it almost impossible for him to see her; a second later, he half-turns, places the oar across his lap and returns the signal with a sad smile.

She nods, and he nods back, and then they continue on. To Winterfell; to Tarth; to home.

\- fin -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, I did not intend this to have such a bittersweet ending, ISTG. (But at least it’s actually bittersweet and not just, y’know, everyone ending up alone. Suck it, D&D.)
> 
> I kind of wanted to explore, with this, the concept of Jaime as a victim of his sister’s toxicity, and him finally realising it and being able to break free. I don’t begrudge him going back to Cersei in canon, purely on the basis that they’ve been entrenched in an abusive relationship for pretty much their entire lives. She’s still his twin sister and he’s allowed to love her; it makes sense that he would go back when he realises it’s game over, and that he would struggle all the more, at that point, to learn to live with both the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ elements of himself simultaneously. He was bound to swing one way or the other in a time of crisis, and sadly, a month of unfettered happiness with Brienne is not enough to undo years of emotional trauma.
> 
> Anyway, that’s my take on it (I work in social care so this stuff is at the forefront of my daily life; write what you know!) and this was my attempt to fix it.
> 
> Side note: I’ve never been convinced about Cersei’s pregnancy. She didn’t look particularly pregnant in episode 5 and my gut instinct is that she was lying about it all along. (Honestly, that’s one question I really would have liked an answer to.) This show has always sucked at delineating time jumps, but by my estimation she would be at least a month gone at the point of telling Jaime / Euron about the pregnancy, it’s another month before he gets to Winterfell, maybe two that he spends there (one of which is with Brienne) and another month before he gets back to Kings Landing again. That makes nearly five months in total, which is more than long enough for there to be actual visual evidence that she’s pregnant.
> 
> It’s also entirely possible I’m applying too much logic to the car crash that was the final two episodes, and the lack of bump for Cersei is just another cost-savings exercise along the same lines of Brienne’s missing scars and us never seeing Jaime without his golden hand (seriously guys how much would a CGI stump have cost? less than a burning city, I bet), but that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. :P
> 
> Regardless, thanks for reading and hopefully this wasn’t too disappointing. I will try and get the “North” alternative written over the course of the next few days, for those who wanted something a bit softer.


	8. North I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, here’s the alternative ending where Jaime and Brienne avoid the war entirely and head back to Winterfell. There will be angst and H/C (I’m troping hard on Jaime’s self-loathing) but also plenty of happy domestic fluff, and maybe a few surprises along the way. This will also include a different way I would have liked to see things go down between Daenerys and Cersei because honestly, they both deserved better…
> 
> I don’t think this warrants an M rating (there’s nothing graphic and stuff is mostly implied) but if anyone believes I need to increase it to that, please do let me know – I wouldn’t want anyone to be misled in either direction. I’m only just venturing out into this sort of territory and it’s very hard to judge what passes for the rating!
> 
> Also: a few readers/commenters have asked for Jaime and Brienne’s reunion on Tarth (specifically for the “South” version) and I’m considering whether I have enough ideas to warrant it – if I do write it, I’ll post it as an epilogue. TBF I’m not quite sure how this version is going to end just yet, so it may end up with alternate beginnings. (Because I like confusing myself apparently.) 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for your patience if you were waiting for this, and please enjoy!

Returning to Winterfell takes much longer than it did to leave.  It took two days of non-stop travel to reach the tavern; at a slower pace, with regular stops to rest, they are four days into the return journey before the castle’s imposing outline edges onto the horizon.  It will be evening before they reach the main gate.

The blizzard clears, by the second day, making visibility much easier and revealing the frozen beauty of the landscape: pure white snow blanketing the ground, pale blue sky overhead, bare trees clawing upwards.  Brienne finds peace in the North, in its vast quiet wilderness, though it makes Jaime feel restless and isolated; the cold gnaws at his bones and he is used to the bustle of the city.

The weight of his decision lies heavy on his back, and for much of their journey he is silent.  He fears for his brother, in Kings Landing, trying desperately to rein in a queen on the verge of madness; for the innocent people who will be caught in the crossfire of the war, and not just because of his sister’s penchant for wildfire.  He has faced the Dragon Queen himself on the battlefield, has seen first-hand how she handles her enemies; even the greatest army is no match for her dragon’s deadly breath.

He feels like the worst kind of coward, for turning away from the capital, but he is so _tired_ of fighting.  He did not expect to survive the Long Night; did not expect to find a tiny pocket of happiness in the North in the aftermath.  He may well have ruined the only good thing in his life, through his ill-advised actions, but at least Brienne will be safe.  Even if she never speaks to him again after she has escorted him back to Winterfell (he is certain the surroundings will only remind her of the way in which he left her), he can rest easy knowing that she is far from Kings Landing, far from the war, far from his sister.

Brienne is skilled at interpreting his silences, and she is unwilling to let him wallow in his own misery.

“You couldn’t have saved her,” she tells him, hoping that this time he will listen.  “And I don’t believe you could have killed her, either.”

“You mean I’d have died trying?”

“I mean you wouldn’t have been able to do it.”  She heaves a sigh.  “And nobody would have expected you to.  She’s not your responsibility.”

“No, she’s not,” he agrees.  “But she _is_ my sister, and I could have prevented all of this so much sooner.”

“I don’t see how,” argues Brienne.  “If the wight at the Dragon Pit wasn’t enough to convince her, was there really anything else you could have done?”

Frustratingly, he realises she is right.  Cersei has always been stubborn and unable to engage in reasonable debate.  The only person who had any sway over her was their father; she respected his authority as much as she feared it.  And her children, of course – she would have done anything for them.  Once they were gone, she had nothing left to lose; something had broken inside her, never to be repaired.

There’s another child, potentially, a fact which he had almost forgotten in his determination to end the war once and for all.  It might be his, or it might be Euron Greyjoy’s, and that’s if it even exists.  With that remembrance comes a firm realisation of the brutal truth: he would never have been able to kill her with an innocent child growing in her belly.  Returning North was really the only choice.

“She will never concede the throne,” he explains quietly.  “And neither will Daenerys.  The best we can hope for is that they get it over with quickly.”

Brienne concurs with a nod, and they continue on in silence.

—J|B—

The sky is growing dark as they finally reach Winterfell’s main gate, the guards on the parapet recognising Brienne as they draw nearer, ensuring they have a smooth passage into the courtyard.  As the gates close behind them again with a heavy thud, Jaime inexplicably feels as though a weight lifts from his shoulders.  There is no going back now; the war can continue in his absence.  Regardless of who sits on the throne, he is likely to receive a death sentence at some point, either at the end of Bronn’s crossbow when his castle does not materialise, or whatever justice the Dragon Queen sees fit to deliver in the aftermath.  At least he can await it with some semblance of a life in the meantime.

As they dismount, unloading their packs and passing the horses over to a stable-hand, Podrick comes running from the castle, almost falling over his own feet in the process and skidding to a halt in front of them on the compacted snow.

He ignores Jaime entirely and attempts to greet Brienne, stumbling over his words breathlessly after his sprint from the castle.

“My Lady— I mean, Ser—“

“Catch your breath, Pod,” she instructs him, a hint of a smile on her face.  She knows she should chide him for leaving Sansa’s side, but there is no imminent threat and he looks so pleased to see her that she cannot quite bring herself to do it.

“You managed to find Ser Jaime, I see?” he guesses, casting only the barest glance towards her companion.  Brienne nods, but does not wish to discuss the matter further, wanting to avoid any unnecessary conflict.  It is little over a week since Podrick found her in this very courtyard, since Jaime had ridden out of it.  There will be time later to explain what has transpired, but she has more pressing matters to attend to at present.

“Is everything well here?”

“Yes, Ser.  Just as you left it.  You’re back in time for supper.”

“I would speak with Lady Sansa first, if she is agreeable.”

Podrick nods, adopting a more business-like stance, and leads the way back into the castle.  Brienne strides after him and Jaime follows, after a brief hesitation, for a lack of any other purpose.  As they reach the corridor which houses Lady Sansa’s private rooms, she turns to him.

“I’ll meet you in the Great Hall after I’m done,” she says.  “I must check in with Lady Sansa.”

“Always so honourable,” he retorts.  “Winterfell has survived a few days without you, Brienne, as I’m sure has Lady Sansa.  A few more hours will not hurt.”

“The Great Hall, later,” she tells him again, with finality, and then sheepishly adds: “I left without informing her.  It would be remiss of me not to announce my return.”

Jaime can see there is little point in arguing, so he does not press her.  “I’ll save you a bowl of something.”

“Thank you.”

With that, she disappears into the dim light of the hallway, leaving him to navigate his way to the Great Hall alone.

—J|B—

The meeting proceeds as well as she could have anticipated, and Brienne leaves her lady’s chambers sooner than expected.

Lady Sansa was upset with her, of course, but Bran had been very thorough in his explanation as to her actions, and Podrick has proven a more-than-adequate sworn sword in the intervening period.  If anything, he has been far too overprotective.  Sansa did not expect Brienne to return so soon, or even at all, and especially not with Jaime in tow; any remaining anger she might have felt over being abandoned had dissolved at the news that Brienne would be remaining in Winterfell indefinitely.

There is no love lost between the Starks and the Lannisters, though Sansa makes exception for its youngest (and smallest) sibling more often than not.  Her tolerance of Jaime has been grudging, at best, his permission to remain granted only for the sake of Brienne’s happiness.  Jaime had never been the direct instigator of cruelty against Sansa, but he had never stepped in to prevent it, either.  Everyone in Cersei’s immediate vicinity had only ever sought to survive; Brienne hesitates to suggest that the same was also true of Jaime.

Sansa ends their discussion with a warning – somewhere between serious and light-hearted – that if Jaime repeats his actions and attempts another return to Kings Landing, she will send word to her brother to have him executed on sight.  Brienne assures her that it will not be necessary; if Jaime betrays her again, she will chase him down and murder him herself.

By the time she reaches the Great Hall, it is practically deserted, and there is no sign of Jaime.    She scans the room for him before eventually conceding that he must have dined without her and retired; she can hardly blame him after the arduous journey of the past few days.  Her own hunger is being dwarfed by exhaustion, and she is about to leave the room again when she notices the familiar shape of Bran Stark near the fire: the hard lines of his wheeled chair and the soft edge of fur forming an unmistakable silhouette.

“Lord Bran,” she greets as she approaches.

“Ser Brienne,” he responds, his eyes moving to her but looking through her, simultaneously.  “Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“I forgot to thank you,” she says, “for your counsel.”  Bran does not respond other than his usual enigmatic smile.  “Lady Sansa informs me that you kept her well-appraised of my whereabouts.”

“She is surprised to see you return so soon.”

“Yes.”  Brienne cannot stop herself from sounding so curious, Bran’s uncanny knowledge perpetually throwing her off-guard.  “I was surprised by that, myself.”

“The path ahead diverged,” he continues, his gaze becoming distant.  “A choice had to be made.”

“I followed only to speak with him,” she clarifies, “to try and make him see reason and stop him from getting killed.  The eventual decision was Jaime’s.”

“He has chosen wisely.”

Bran says nothing further, and she knows better than to ask for a clarification, but she feels the same hope as she did all those nights ago, stumbling upon the young Stark in the Godswood and staying for his cryptic advice.

“Goodnight, Ser Brienne,” he says.

“My Lord.”

—J|B—

Her chambers are unexpectedly warm, when she finally returns, a wall of heat enveloping her as she enters and closes the door.  Someone must have kept the hearth going in her absence; the temperature is far higher than she would expect for a fire built shortly after her arrival.  She feels her energy draining away as the warmth seeps into her bones, and seeks to divest herself of her furs and ill-fitting armour before she succumbs to her sudden need for sleep.

“Let me help.”

In the firelit darkness of the room, she barely notices Jaime until he stands, the chair scraping across the stone floor, to assist her with the unfamiliar armour.  Then she realises there are two bowls of stew on the table, a hearty chunk of bread and a flagon of ale; he has ordered their supper to be brought to the room.  For some reason, she did not expect him to be here, but now that he is, she finds herself grateful for his company.

He cannot help much, with only one hand (the golden one is still in her pack, she realises, and she will happily leave it there if he is amenable), but between them they detach the heavy plates and stow them away.  Her own armour is hanging proudly from its stand in the corner of the room, its blue surfaces almost black in the low light, reflecting the orange flicker of the fire.

Jaime correctly interprets her silence as sheer exhaustion – they had left their makeshift camp at first light with barely a stop for rest before reaching the castle – and leads her gently to the opposite chair, his right arm resting gently against her back to support her weight if needed.  She is not hungry, but eats to appease him, after the effort he has gone to.  The stew and bread slowly dwindle, though she cannot stomach the ale.

“I couldn’t stay in the Great Hall,” he tells her after a moment of thoughtful stillness.  “Too many unfriendly faces.  Just how far did the news spread, after I’d left?”

She shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  I informed only Lady Sansa; Podrick found me afterwards; and Lord Bran knew some of what you were planning, and sent me after you.”  Those unfriendly faces, she imagines, are the same as followed her around with pity in their eyes.  “Your absence was obvious, Jaime.  If you want someone to blame for spreading gossip, start with your brother.”

“Ah, Tyrion.  Yes, he’s always been terrible for rumours.  Not to mention meddlesome.”

“And _you_ were not exactly discreet,” she adds, and he does not deny it.

“Neither shall I be this time.”  He smiles at her surprised expression.  “I thought I would only need to prove myself to you, but apparently I have to prove it to everyone else, as well.  So _no_ , Brienne, I shall not be discreet about it.”  He reaches out to lay his hand over hers, where it rests against the table’s surface.  “All my life, I’ve had to sneak around, fearful of being caught.  If I have caused you any embarrassment, then I apologise, but I cannot regret it.  I love you, and I would make sure every man, woman and child in the North knows it.”

Brienne’s thumb gently caresses his where they touch, and she wears the same look on her face as after he  had knighted her.  He understands better now what it means; perhaps he had understood it _then_ , as well, but had been unable to believe it.  It took them both too long to realise what that act had represented, though he is certain now that every other person in the room was more than aware.  His little brother has always been too perceptive for his own good.

The moment is lost as Brienne yawns, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth a little too late as the involuntary reflex catches her by surprise.

“Oh.  Forgive me, Jaime.  It’s been a long day.”

“We can continue this discussion tomorrow,” he suggests, “assuming Lady Sansa does not need you?”

“She has given me a further day’s leave,” she tells him.  “To rest after the journey.”

She will use half of that day, if not even less, Jaime knows.  Brienne is not the sort of person to idle her day away, and she is bound to find something at Winterfell that needs her attention.  Still, he will gladly take up whatever of her time he can.  For now, it is evident their conversation will have to wait, as she can barely keep her eyes open.

“Sleep, Brienne,” he commands her gently, squeezing her hand for a second before releasing her, and she nods and rises from the chair, her legs a little unsteady.  She grips the chair-back for support for a moment, summoning enough energy to propel herself the few short paces to the bed.

“What about you?” she asks.

“I’m not tired.  There’s ale to finish.  I’ll be fine.”

“No, I mean…  Are you staying here?”  Her face is open and questioning, genuinely uncertain.

“If that’s what you want, then yes.  If you don’t… if it’s too soon, I’ll find somewhere else.”

The prospect does not exactly fill him with joy, after his experience in the Great Hall; nor does he particularly relish the thought of spending the night elsewhere in Winterfell.  He is fairly certain Podrick will not hesitate to justly punish him for his actions – the boy will be on the warpath for the next few days – and the rest of the castle’s inhabitants had barely tolerated him at all, before the Long Night, any grudging acceptance which may have come in the days after now obliterated.

“You’ve chosen to be here,” she reminds him.  “I’d like you to stay.”

His first instinct is to rise from the chair and enfold her into his arms, out of sheer relief, but he manages to curb the emotion and merely nods in response.

Brienne averts her gaze, lowering her head, before stepping away from the table.  She is very aware of his eyes on her as she steps out of her boots and stows them by the wall, but her exhaustion has overtaken any remaining self-consciousness.  She shrugs out of her leather jerkin and folds it neatly, placing it on top of the chest in the corner of the room; she loosens the tie at the neck of her shirt for the sake of comfort; when she turns back, Jaime has risen from the chair and is bearing down on her.  She barely has time to react before he leans up to kiss her, his arms pulling her in tight against him.

He had intended to leave her alone to prepare for bed; had only watched to ensure she did not stumble through tiredness; had been unable to tear his gaze away as her fingers worked at the fastenings of her jerkin and the lace of her shirt, and then it had all been too familiar and too _much_ and his only coherent thought was that he needed desperately to be close to her, consequences be damned. 

Her response to the kiss is immediate, despite her surprise, and she clings to him to stop herself from falling as her legs threaten to give out, her hands clutching at the front of his shirt.  They have spent the past few nights sleeping side by side in cramped tavern beds, or huddled together against the cold wherever shelter could be found, separated by armour and layers of leather and fur.  The warmth of him is overwhelming, and still not enough, and she presses in closer.

She cannot tell if she is pulling or if he is pushing, who is directing who, before they collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.  The part of her which is still exhausted is glad of the relief from standing, but it is quickly being overtaken by a need of a different kind, Jaime’s familiar weight propped above her, his kiss deep and consuming.  She feels light-headed, whether from tiredness or sheer oxygen deprivation she cannot determine, perhaps a little of both, but either way she does not want to stop.  Her hands, always the last part of her to become useful, work to release the loose edge of his shirt from his waistband, fingers urgently seeking the heat of his skin beneath, and his hips roll instinctively at the exact same second as his mouth finally detaches from hers.

He gulps in a desperate breath, and so does she, the world becoming a little less blurry around the edges.  She wills herself to remain still, caught in the sudden intensity of his gaze, unable to interpret his silence.   After what feels like an eternity, he visibly gathers his self-control and shifts away from her, dropping to her left, to lie on his side next to her.  Brienne is too drained to try and rein in her emotions, and she is well aware that her face reflects her confusion at his actions; perhaps there is an element of _hurt_ in her expression, too, because Jaime’s hand immediately finds hers and grasps it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his words tumbling out as he tries to explain, “that was very impulsive, I should have shown more restraint, you’re clearly exhausted and I should not have even _presumed_ to kiss you like that, but _Gods_ , Brienne, I’ve _missed_ you.”

The last three words are muffled against her skin, as he buries his face against her neck.

“We’ve been travelling together for four days,” she reminds him.  “It’s not as though—“

“Four days of _survival_ ,” he counters, pressing a kiss to the pale scars at her neck, moving to her shoulder when the contact sends an involuntary shudder down her spine, before raising his head again to look at her.  “Before that, two days of travelling alone with only my thoughts for company, and most of them were of you.”

“And what of _my_ thoughts for those two days, Jaime?” she retorts, more angrily than she had intended, remembered pain washing over her anew.  “Did that cross your mind at any point?”

His face is anguished.  “It _haunted_ me,” he confesses, “knowing that I’d hurt you; that you believed I’d left you, that I’d never loved you, when—“

He is interrupted by Brienne abruptly releasing his hand and rolling away from him, as she tries valiantly to regain control of her fraught emotions, and his determination to fix the mess he has created only increases.  He reaches tentatively for her arm, heartened when she does not flinch away.

“I am truly sorry, Brienne.  I know that doesn’t change what I did, nor does it absolve me of my crimes.  You know them all, as well as I do.  But this… _this_ was the worst misdemeanour of my life, to have destroyed your trust in me.”  He sighs, finding it impossible to speak when he cannot judge her reaction.  “Please, look at me.”

She wipes her eyes as discreetly as she can, though she knows that he notices regardless, and after a brief hesitation she rolls back towards him.  She maintains a distance between them and he respects it, resisting the urge to move closer.  Her eyes are glassy with tears and he feels himself drowning.

“My greatest regret is that I did not tell you this sooner,” he says, and then quietly admits: “I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember.  It took me far too many years to recognise it for what it was, but even so – I should have told you weeks ago.”

“As should I,” she confesses wearily.  “But I…”  _I was terrified you would not reciprocate_ , she wants to say, but she swallows it.  “Would it have made any difference?”

He wants desperately to reassure her that if he had known of her feelings he would never have left, but he cannot; because he _did_ know of them, and had convinced himself he was unworthy of her unwavering devotion.  If she had said the words, that would only have made the parting blow so much worse.

“No,” he tells her honestly, “but that is _my_ failing, not yours.  I promise you, Brienne – _none_ of this has been caused by any fault on your part.”

 _I don’t deserve you_.  She recalls his words to her only a few days prior, and her heart aches with the need to make him understand that he _does_ ; that Jaime Lannister, better than anyone else in the world, deserves to be loved in a way that is not hurtful or mired in immoral secrecy.  She has no idea how to achieve such a thing, being inexperienced in matters of the heart; everything she knows, she has learned from Jaime.  The depth of his inner turmoil is incomprehensible to her – thank the Seven, she has no basis for comparison – but she is keenly aware that it will take months, maybe even years, to undo the damage his family has caused.

Brienne has never shied away from a challenge – even now, when she is bone-tired and wants to sleep for days.

She closes the space between them, inching nearer until she can rest her forehead against his.  Jaime’s relief is tangible in the weight of his arm as it drapes instinctively around her waist; in the gentle way he urges her closer and entangles their legs together.  His eyes close on a quiet, contented sigh.  With her arms crushed a little awkwardly between them, she rests her palms over his heart, seeking out the rhythm beneath his skin, before carefully extricating one of her hands to reach up touch his face.  He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking to hers, and she is fascinated to feel his heartbeat speeding up.

“You’re a fool,” she tells him, and she makes it sound like a compliment.

He smiles, a little self-deprecating.  “At least we both agree on something.”

“And I love you,” she adds with determination.  “Are we both in agreement with that?”

He stares at her with the awed expression she has become so used to, and silently nods.  He will never fully believe it, she knows; he will always be expecting some hidden caveat or condition; but for now, for tonight, in the aftermath of his terrible decision, he is convinced of the strength of her feelings.  She leans in, pressing her lips to his, affirming her words; her thumb brushes feather-light against his face; he deepens the kiss in response, languorous and undemanding, allowing her to set the pace.

She drifts apart from him an indeterminate amount of time later, both her head and her heart feeling lighter; there is so much more she wants to say, but her entire being is craving sleep and she has put off its demands long enough, barely able to keep her eyes open.  Jaime is sympathetic to her plight, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before withdrawing with a light chuckle.  He rearranges them both, coaxing Brienne into a more comfortable position in his arms before she completely succumbs to her exhaustion.

He rearranges as many furs as he can reach to cover them both, creating a cocoon of warmth.  Brienne snuggles into him, burying her face against his neck, breathing him in.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says in a low whisper, and then lapses into silence as sleep finally claims her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...I've just realised that Brienne obtained second-hand armour in the "South" ending, not necessarily in this one - I am far too lazy to go back and change it so just assume Jaime mithered her about finding some before they rode back, okay?)
> 
> There will be more coming at some point, but I wanted to get the first part of this up in case people were getting impatient. That final section gave me a lot of trouble, mostly because it couldn't decide whether it wanted to go in a smutty direction or not. Thank anything, it chose the route of angst, otherwise it would probably never have gotten written.
> 
> I make no promises for when the next part will appear. I also have literally no idea how long this is going to be as I have a few concepts I want to include, and no firm direction for the ending.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and - as ever - for your patience.


	9. North II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the next section, and apologies again for the delay; for the most part it’s been due to the story just not cooperating, but I’m also in the process of unexpectedly moving house (the perils of renting, yay!) and my day job has become exhaustingly busy again, so both of these things are taking up a lot of my energy. Regardless, I’m hoping to get this story finished before I have to pack my PC away and lose my internet access for a couple of weeks.
> 
> Just to give you fair warning, this ending turned out even longer than “South” did, and I’ve had to split it up into four sections, so there’s two more chapters to go before the story is officially finished. Also? Four was originally three but this part was getting out of hand and I had to split it up. I intended there to be a bit of a cliffhanger at the end, but it can wait until the next bit – I’m hoping the final two chapters will be a bit shorter, but I have a lot of ground to cover…
> 
> For now, here’s a lovely rollercoaster of angst, absolutely shameless fluff, and H/C around Jaime’s self-loathing, with much of the same coming in the next chapter, before the last one deals with my alterna-version of Daenerys vs. Cersei…
> 
> Please enjoy, and thanks for your patience. :)

For the next few days, it feels as though they are dancing around each other.  Brienne’s time is taken up with Lady Sansa, as news slowly trickles in from the south; the fighting has ceased, for now, whilst Daenerys and her advisors agree on the best course of action.  Jaime is tasked with whatever is needed around the castle, similar to before his departure, though it is a much harder graft against the unimpressed glares of the Northmen.

He has shared Brienne’s bed since their return to Winterfell, but only to sleep, and to wake up entangled with her.  Despite the near-miss on the night of their arrival, they have not yet found their way back to each other in any greater sense.  Though Brienne understands better now his reasons for leaving, she has still not quite forgiven him for the manner in which he attempted it; he can hardly blame her for that, and is grateful to be with her however he can.  It will take time to rebuild trust between them, for Jaime to slowly chip away at the wall around her heart until she has faith he will not break it again.  Time is the one thing they have in abundance.

Jaime is increasingly restless, waiting impatiently for news about either of his siblings, whether good or bad.  The Dragon Queen’s trusted friend and advisor, Missandei, is probably dead by now if his sister has any say in it, and he fears for what the aftermath may bring.  He goes for walks of a night to try and settle himself, wandering the battlements, determined to learn his way around the Starks’ infernal castle so he is not completely dependent on Brienne to get to where he needs to be.  He finds himself lost on multiple occasions, seeking directions from servants; they deliberately misadvise him only some of the time, and it becomes rarer as they find less fun in it.

In the small hours, when he returns to the quarters he now shares with Brienne, she is deeply asleep, after long days of keeping counsel with Sansa.  He slides in beside her, huddles close, and listens to her even breathing, until her warmth and her presence lull him to sleep.

After a week or so, increasingly uneasy about progress in the south, he sends a raven to his brother: short and succinct in his unsteady, wrong-handed penmanship.

_Tyrion,_

_Remember the wildfire.  Speak with your Queen before it’s too late._

_J—_

He can only hope the message reaches him in time, and that Tyrion knows what to do with it.

—J|B—

Life continues in the North much the same as it ever has.  The pace is slower, after the Long Night, with no imminent threat on the horizon, but the winter days are scarce on sunlight and there is much still to do.  Rebuilding the castle is a seemingly endless task, and Jaime finds himself, more often than not, overseeing the construction rather than doing any heavy lifting himself.  Sansa does not argue as long as her home is refortified, particularly after Brienne argues that Jaime’s skills are better suited to commanding than being commanded.

When she is not sequestered away with the Lady of Winterfell, Brienne trains with Podrick; Jaime watches from afar when he finds the chance, admiring the fluidity of her movements.  Pod can almost match her now, but is yet to best her in a fight, ending up on his back in the mud more often than not.  Brienne helps him up, adjusts his grip on the blade or corrects his stance, tells him, “Again,” and pushes him even harder.  She is ruthless, efficient, but never unfair; Jaime’s heart surges with pride and admiration and overwhelming love.

There are no more soldiers to drill, but the training yard slowly begins to repopulate, instead, with local children; _girls_ , more specifically, travelling from the local villages and towns to see the Lady Knight of Tarth.  Lady Sansa is delighted by their presence, and Brienne finds herself their reluctant teacher.  Before too long, she is surrounded on a daily basis by a gaggle of youngsters with wooden swords, the _clack-clack_ of their makeshift weapons drowned out by laughter, sparring abandoned in favour of pursuing each other around the yard. 

One afternoon, whilst trying ineffectually to rein in the energetic would-be soldiers in her immediate vicinity, she catches Jaime staring at her from the battlements.  He is unconcerned at being found out and merely returns her gaze with a smile, even as her brow crinkles with puzzled curiosity, before she turns away to correct the posture of the few children who are still paying attention.  Podrick is no help whatsoever, engaged in a cat-and-mouse chase with two of the youngest pupils; he lets them catch him, tackle him to the ground and trounce him with their wooden blades, groaning in mock agony. 

Brienne admonishes him, her exasperated voice carrying loud and clear across the courtyard so that even Jaime can hear it from his vantage point some distance away, and when she seeks him out again he is shaking with laughter.  He tries to rein in his amusement when he realises she is watching, but the affronted look on her face only makes him laugh even more.  Brienne rolls her eyes and announces that the day’s training is over, leaving Pod to round up their wayward charges as she stalks back to the castle.

—J|B—

Jaime does not see her again until that evening, when he returns to their quarters to find that she has fetched them a meal.  She is deep in concentration, cleaning the blade of her sword, and does not notice him until the heavy door closes behind him.

“How are our tiny soldiers?” he asks her jovially.  “Are they battle-ready?”

“Not in the least,” she responds.  “But hopefully there won’t be any battles in their immediate future.”

She rises from the table to stow Oathkeeper safely away, at the same time as Jaime crosses to take up the opposite seat, and she levels her gaze at him from the other side of the room.

“I’m glad you found my predicament so amusing, Jaime.”

“I was laughing at Podrick,” he says, and it is only half a lie.  “At least, I was at first.”

There is still a gleam of amusement in his eyes, and it bothers her that she cannot quite distinguish the reason for it.

“I fail to see the jape.   Lady Sansa has charged me to teach the children, and I can barely control them.  How am I supposed to gain their respect if I can’t—“

“Brienne,” he interrupts her softly.  “You don’t need their respect; you have their admiration, and they love you.  It’s obvious to anyone who’s watching, and I’ve been doing a lot of that.  You’re their _hero_.  Put yourself in their place: if the first Lady Knight of Westeros had existed when you were a girl, wouldn’t you have wanted to meet her?  Wouldn’t you have fallen over yourself in your excitement if you did?”

Understanding dawns on her face, her stance relaxing, and she joins him at the table.  He pours her a cup of water from the pitcher and allows her to pick what she wants from the trencher between them, piled with cured meat, hard cheese, bread and sour winter-berry jam.  Jaime struggles sometimes with the sparse, rustic fare of the North, a lifetime away from the lavish feasts to which he became accustomed in the royal household, but he never outwardly complains.

“Perhaps,” she muses, “I need to keep better control over Podrick instead.  He’s more hindrance than help.”

“Ah, let the lad enjoy himself for a while,” he suggests.  “I doubt he had much of a childhood before he was set to squiring.”

“Or maybe I should ask _you_ to help me.”

“Gladly,” he says, smiling, “though I can’t promise to be any more use than young Pod.”

She shakes her head, sighing in frustration.  “I still don’t see what’s so funny about all of this.”

Jaime reaches across the table, placing his hand over hers in reassurance.  “Truly, it was Podrick’s antics that amused me,” he tells her.  “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“So why are you still—“

“Because I’m _happy_ ,” he blurts out, without thinking, and the realisation of what he has said makes him pause.  Brienne does not respond, merely stares at him, and in the ensuing silence he considers the word again.

His days in the North are busy, distracting him from his anxiousness about the impending war, but until now he has never really thought to ascribe a feeling to the time he spends with Brienne.  It is routine, but it feels _right_.

He can barely remember the last time he was truly happy; when Tyrion was very young, maybe, before Cersei became more to him than just his sister.  After that, his life became too complicated and shrouded in secrecy, too embroiled in politics, for happiness to be a factor.  There had been moments later down the line: the birth of his children, for one, but even that was a fleeting thing when he had to content himself with being their uncle for the rest of their too-brief lives.

As he was riding South, away from Winterfell, away from Brienne, he did truly not understand what he was leaving behind.  Or perhaps he had forgotten, in his efforts to become once again a man without honour, forsaking his every good deed to bury himself in his sins.  His brother had even pointed it out, before their troubling encounter with Bronn, but still he had not fully appreciated what was happening.

It hits him now like a clash of swords, like an arrow to his heart.

“Gods, it’s true,” he breathes.  “I’m actually happy.  Here, of all places…”

Brienne looks at him slightly askance.  “But you hate the North.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “it’s cold and empty and full of bloody Starks – or it _was_ , at any rate; they’re a bit thin on the ground these days…”  He checks himself, remembering that most of the Starks are dead because of his family, and those that remain would need less reason than that to return the favour.  He refocuses his thoughts, and confirms it again:  “I fucking hate the North, and I’m certain that most of the North hates me.  But none of that matters, because _you’re_ here, and you’re the reason I travelled to this Gods-forsaken frozen wasteland.”

She already knows that – had surmised it herself, only days ago – but her expression is slightly sceptical; she does not fully believe him.  Without breaking the contact of his hand over hers, he rises from the chair and edges around the table, dropping to his knees in front of her; he lifts her arm gently, his fingers gripping onto her hers more tightly, urging her to shift in the chair until she is facing him.  Their joined hands are resting in her lap and she stares down at them for a long moment.  He speaks her name and her eyes lift to his, still cautious; he regrets his bout of laughter earlier in the day, unable to find the words to explain to her that it came from a place of joy and affection, rather than being at her expense.

“Is that…” she begins to ask, and then corrects it: “Am I really the reason you came here?”

“Not the only reason,” he says, sitting back on his heels; this could take some time and he’d rather be comfortable.  “If Cersei had not broken her oath, I would have arrived with an army at my back to help defend the North.  But if you hadn’t gone to the Dragon Pit and kicked some sense into me, I probably would have done whatever she’d wanted, broken vows included.  After Tommen died, I…”  He has to pause for a moment to compose himself; Brienne’s other hand drops to cover his with a comforting pressure, and it gives him strength.  “I gave up.  I was tired of fighting, and she wouldn’t listen to reason.  With Father dead, our children dead… all that mattered to her was the throne.  And she was all that mattered to me.  Until I saw you again.”

She is silent for some time, remembering that day at the Dragon Pit.  When Lady Sansa had sent her South to represent Winterfell, she had been reluctant: not just to leave Sansa unprotected, but because there was a very real possibility of seeing Jaime again, to have another of their infamously guarded conversations, where they would say more with silence and longing looks than with actual words, before inevitably saying goodbye to fight on opposite sides of a war.  Once there, she had sensed immediately that Jaime was not himself; adhered to his sister’s side and barely able to look her in the eye; resplendent in Lannister armour, a mere façade for the broken man inside it.  Even now, she cannot say what possessed her to reach for him as they left, other than a desperate wish to break through to the Jaime she remembered: the Jaime who had sworn her to protect the Stark girls and given her the tools to do it, who had bared his soul at Harrenhal and saved her from a grisly death.

“You would have done the right thing without me, I’m sure,” she suggests.

“Maybe I would,” he ponders.  “That undead _thing_ was enough to convince me that the battle was best fought for the living.”

“And for the child…” she says, and immediately regrets it when his face flashes with barely-suppressed agony.

She knows about the baby, of course; he confessed it to her one night during their too-brief time together after the battle, when a drunken evening with Tyrion had pitched him headlong into a spiral of guilt and despair.  They did not speak of it again afterwards, though she wanted nothing more than to ease him of the burden somehow despite the uneasiness roiling in her gut at the thought.

“I’m not even sure it’s mine,” he admits quietly.  “She told me it was, and then, to hurt me, she told me it wasn’t.  For all I know, she might have been lying about the whole thing.”  It’s the one weapon his sister has always known how to wield to cause the most damage.  “No child deserves to be born into a war, especially a war against an army of the dead.  She would never have let me be a father; I know that.  But I thought it might make her realise there were bigger things worth fighting for than the throne.”

Brienne cannot meet his gaze as she tries to verbalise her next question, voicing the devastating insecurity she has always fought against.  She removes her hand from his, dropping it to her side so he cannot see the way her fingers curl into her palm, nails digging into her skin, a physical discomfort to overtake the emotional pain she is sure will follow.

“If… if your sister wins this war…”  She cannot finish, the words refusing to form, and wills him to understand.  From his silence, it is evident he has no idea what she is trying to ask him; she forces down her emotions and tries to approach it as she would any attack, focused and direct, but she stumbles over it regardless.  “If there _is_ a child… if they both survive… would you go back?”  _Would you leave me again?_

Despite her efforts, some of her fear must be evident from her face, because Jaime’s hand squeezes hers before he speaks; he rises up on his knees again, drawing himself more level with her.

“She wants me _dead_ ,” he tells her.  “And probably you as well.  I have no doubt she saw our little exchange at the Dragon Pit.  She’s always known how I feel about you, Brienne; I think she knew before I did.   I couldn’t go back there even if I wanted to.”

“ _Do_ you want to?”

He shakes his head.  “I don’t love her any more,” he says, and it’s obvious she does not believe him.  “Not in that way; she will always be my sister, and I’ll always love her for that… but I chose _you_.  I fell in love with _you_ , and you’re the one who holds my heart.”

He wraps his hand around hers and lifts it gently, placing it in the centre of his chest; she can feel the steady thud beneath her palm.  The fingers of her other hand slowly unfurl, and as she lifts it to rest against his face, she hopes he does not notice the tiny crescent-shaped marks in her skin.

“Do you trust me to keep it safe?” she asks.

“I’d trust you with my life,” he responds, a perplexed frown edging onto his face.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She feels a little guilty for challenging him, but she wants him to understand that she would fight anything that might try to come between them, including his own demons.  She is not sure she has the words to explain it.

It feels wrong to be staring down at him, for him to be kneeling as though in supplication; she has never considered herself as anything other than his equal.  She rises from the chair, encouraging Jaime to his feet with a gentle tug on his hand.  Their height difference is negligible, mere inches now compared to a head-and-a-half, placing them on a more even footing. 

“Jaime, I…  I don’t really know how to explain this, so please, be patient with me.”  He gives her an encouraging nod.  “What you shared with… with your sister… that wasn’t love.  I know you thought it was, but love shouldn’t have conditions; it shouldn’t be hurtful.  I don’t have much in the way of experience, but I’m fairly certain of that.”

She gathers her thoughts, trying to gauge Jaime’s reaction; he merely stares at her, listening intently.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you over the past few weeks,” she continues, “it’s that when you love someone, it’s with everything you have.  It’s obvious from your face when you speak of your children, and I saw it for myself while Tyrion was here.”

“Not just Tyrion,” he reminds her quietly, though she does not miss the wave of sadness that overtakes his features at the mention of his brother, so many miles away in Kings Landing.  “Brienne—“

“Let me finish,” she interrupts gently, pressing her hand to his mouth to silence him.  He nods and she withdraws.  “I have no doubt you love – _loved_ – your sister just as much as Tyrion, if not more… but Jaime, she didn’t deserve it.   She never has.” 

He does not respond; her observation has clearly shaken him.  Brienne takes a step forward, raising her hand once again to press it over his heart, whilst her other rests at the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair as she leans her forehead against his.  Jaime’s good hand instinctively covers hers against his chest whilst his foreshortened arm winds around her waist.  The rhythm beneath her palm is more erratic than it was before, and he exhales on a shudder, trying to retain some control over his emotions.

“You said that I hold your heart,” she reminds him.

“Yes,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper.  “You have done for years.”

“Then you must believe that I won’t let any harm come to it.  You’ve given me so much in the time we’ve known each other, but this is the gift I cherish the most.”

Jaime’s hand tightens over hers for a brief moment before he lifts it to her face, gently easing her away so he can properly meet her gaze.  His eyes are bright in the firelight, glistening with unshed tears.

“ _Gods_ , Brienne.  How are you even _real_?”  He shakes his head in disbelief.  “How... what did I do in my life that was so good, to be rewarded with this?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

Suddenly, he craves her warmth, her closeness, more than he needs air to breathe.  He tightens his right arm to pull her into his embrace, the fingers of his left hand sinking into her hair; as both of her arms wrap around him in return, he drops his head to her shoulder, burying his face into the curve of her neck for a moment, to try and regain some composure.  He breathes her in: the scent of pine and frost from the outside air; the tang of steel and leather; candle-smoke and delicately-fragranced soap; _home_.

He pulls back enough to lock his gaze to hers, and his need to kiss her is secondary only to the desperate urge to express the emotion burning in his chest, before it sets him ablaze.

“I love you,” he says, “beyond sense; beyond reason; beyond _words_.  I will never cause you to doubt it again, I _swear_.”

With that, he leans up, gently tilting her face down, to press his mouth to hers.  She returns the pressure for a moment, her hands moving to frame his face, but then she pulls away with a troubled expression that he must surely be reflecting back at her in response.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she reassures him, “just…”  She sighs, her hands dropping again to rest lightly against his chest.  “I’m still not ready to forgive you, for what you did.”

“Oh.  That’s…”  He cannot finish the thought, cannot find the right word.  _Unfortunate_.  _Devastating.  Probably sensible, under the circumstances._ Thankfully, before he can make the situation any worse, Brienne speaks again in a more reassuring tone.

“But I… I believe that you regret it deeply, and that you won’t do it again.”

“You have my word, on my honour, what little there is of it.”

She has never been able to abide his self-deprecation when it comes to talk of honour.  “Don’t—“

“Please, Brienne.  I’m asking you to trust me, even if you can’t forgive me.”

She searches his face, and sees only truth.  “I do trust you.”

This time, when he kisses her, she does not ease him away, but returns it with a fervour to match his own.  After nearly two weeks of barely seeing each other thanks to their separate duties at Winterfell, this is the longest conversation they have managed to navigate since their return; they have both had a lot of time to think, emotions building with no means to release them, and now the dam has broken.  Jaime’s mouth is desperate and possessive against hers one moment, achingly tender the next, and her head is reeling from trying to keep up, whilst her hands – _finally_ – work of their own volition.  Within mere moments, she has divested him of his outer coat and jerkin, seeking desperately to make contact with his skin, their kiss breaking as she yanks his shirt up and over his head.

Before she can lean in again, he stills her with his hand against her arm, holding her back with a gentle pressure.  There is a curious and slightly concerned expression on her face and he wants nothing more than to erase it, but his words have abandoned him and all he can do is gawp at her in belated surprise.  Still, something of what he wants to communicate must be obvious from his face, because her worried look slowly dissolves and she moves a little closer.

“I thought you’d missed me,” she says, reminding him of his words to her on their return to the North.

“Gods, _yes_ ,” he manages to blurt out.  “But I… are you—?“

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

With that, she shuts him up again in the only way that has ever been effective, her hands encircling his face to drag him back to her, and neither of them can summon a coherent thought for quite some time afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the reason this chapter ended up much longer than I intended and had to be split up, is because that long conversation at the end gave me a LOT of trouble in trying to get it where it needed to go, and that's mostly what caused the delay in posting this. Anyway, hopefully it was enjoyable and sorry if it made anyone cry (also, not sorry).
> 
> I have some more written for the next section, but the one after that I haven't even started yet, and I didn't want to delay posting this any further.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you thought. :)


	10. North III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go: over 7000(!) words of angst, H/C, fluff, affectionate banter, another soul-cleansing conversation (these two have a lot to discuss, okay?), and not much in the way of actual plot. Not that there was much of one to begin with. I basically feel like if they’d acknowledged any of this stuff in canon, things might have turned out better, so now I’m making up for it in kind. :P
> 
> I’d like to say we’ve seen the last of the angst for this pair, but sadly there’s more to come in the final chapter (I just can’t help myself; it’s like a compulsion). If it’s any consolation, this time the ending will NOT be bittersweet, I promise.
> 
> Timeline-wise, the first section of this chapter immediately follows the previous one (notwithstanding there’s been a fade-to-black in the meantime) – it’s essentially the not-quite-morning after. Initially this would have formed part of the same chapter if not for it growing words at a rate of knots, so that transition would have been more obvious. (The actual show sucks at telling us how much time has passed between scenes, so I thought it best to clarify for the avoidance of doubt. :P)
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you enjoy. :)

She awakens with a chill down her spine.

It is an unfamiliar sensation, after weeks of waking to the warmth of another in her bed, and she shuffles backwards, seeking reprieve from the cold.  There is nothing but empty air behind her, and the realisation of that drags her further into alertness, as she rolls towards the space where Jaime should be and finds it vacant.  She sits up in alarm, her hand trailing over the sheet, seeking some evidence of his presence, but the other side of the bed is cool to the touch.

She understands, logically, deep down in a sensible part of her brain, that he cannot have gone far, that he would not have abandoned her, especially not after their conversation last night; but in her still half-asleep state, the memory of that night overwhelms her: the sinking realisation of knowing he had left, her determination not to let him go, her absolute inability to convince him otherwise.  The sting of rejection rises like a wave and crashes inside her skull; her throat tightens and bitter tears sting her eyes, blurring her vision even as she tries in vain to blink them away.  She brings her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly, hiding her face in a futile effort to stem the flow.  A voice in her head is chastising her, sounding uncannily like her childhood Septa, s _tupid girl, stupid, you should never have trusted him, you knew this would happen,_ and she cannot shut it out, and Jaime’s voice joins in, repeating all the terrible things he had done for his sister, _she’s hateful, and so am I_ —

“Oh, fuck.  No, no, no.  Brienne.  _Brienne.”_

Suddenly his voice is in the room with her, urgent, moving closer; the mattress dips and the furs lift and his arms are encircling her, as best they can when she is curled up into such a self-protective stance.  His chest is warm against her back and he rests his chin against her shoulder and something inside her _breaks_ , a sob wrenching from her throat which causes her entire body to shudder.  His grip tightens and he presses a kiss to her shoulder-blade, soft and reassuring, the scratch of his beard against her skin bringing her back to reality again.

She tries to regain control over her breathing, taking in a lungful of air and exhaling it more shakily than intended, but it is effective in calming her down enough to speak.

“I thought you’d—“

“Shh, I know.  Don’t fret.  I didn’t go anywhere.”

His tone is comforting, slowly grounding her, and it is then she realises the room is bathed in the warm glow of a recently-tended fire, the chill which had woken her already abating.  A sense of understanding floods her veins: he had only left to re-stoke the flames; if she had remained asleep, she would not even have noticed his temporary absence. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, wiping irritably at her face, “I’m being ridiculous.”

“No, you’re not,” he says reassuringly, “and it’s me who should be apologising.  I should have realised how this might look.  I was trying to make myself useful, but…”  He sighs in frustration.  “Gods, I’m so sorry.  Even when I try and do the right thing, I get it wrong.”

Feeling significantly saner and considerably more awake, Brienne unfurls and relaxes, turning in Jaime’s arms.  She cannot bear the guilty expression on his face, and with an eye-roll and a brief kiss, she pushes him onto his back so she can cuddle up to him properly.  She reaches for the furs and tugs them higher, staving off the last of the cold.  His left arm curls around her shoulders, her head dropping to the crook of his neck; she draws lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertips, and in response, his handless wrist traces up and down her arm, both of them craving the contact of skin on skin.  A surge of familiar affection floods her heart; she is continually surprised and overjoyed that he feels no shame, with her, over the missing appendage.  It has been a long battle to reach such a place, a battle she did not fully expect to win.

Her overreaction on waking makes her burn with embarrassment, tinged with guilt that she immediately thought the worst, jumped to the wrong conclusion and caused Jaime to doubt himself.  Especially after the previous night, when she had tried so hard to reassure him that his heart was safe in her hands.  She does not want the shadow of his self-loathing hanging over them; not when she knows the path ahead is bright; not when he has so much goodness still to give.

“Jaime, I… I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” he tells her, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, and she believes he would dive head-first into a snake-pit, if she asked him to.  Thankfully, what she wants to request of him is not quite so destructive – quite the opposite, in fact.

“When you’re with me, I want you to… to try and see yourself as I do.  To see all the good things you’re capable of, until you really believe it.”  In the ensuing silence, it is clear Jaime is considering her request; she feels the need to continue.  “I know how difficult a decision it was, to turn around and come back here.  And I know that your intentions were honourable when you left for the capital, even though you handled it badly – that you were trying to keep me safe, trying to stop the war before it claimed any more lives.  I know all of this, Jaime, because I know _you_.  You’re not the monster you think you are.”

“Am I not?” he asks, and there is a flatness to his tone which she recognises, now, as the first sign of him trying to shut himself away, to avoid having to reconcile the two opposing sides of himself.  Brienne draws the goodness out of him as strongly as Cersei pushes it back inside; he has never been able to find a middle ground.

“No,” she tells him firmly, “you’re _not_.”

“I can be,” he responds darkly; his stump has stilled against her arm, the fingers of his left hand slack against her shoulder.  “I’m more than capable.  We both know that.”

“You can exorcise your demons in the training yard,” she suggests, uncomfortably aware that her voice has taken on a slightly impatient and commanding tone, but hoping it might get through to him where softness has failed.  “Go for one of your night-time walks and get yourself lost.  Ride out to an empty field and scream into the wilderness, if you have to.”

“Brienne—“

“All I ask is that when you’re here, with me, you leave it behind.  If you truly can’t, then I’ll do my best to help you forget.”  She raises her head, propping herself up slightly to meet his gaze.  “There may be a war going on, but we can still have peace.”

He searches her face, a maelstrom of emotions flitting over his features as he considers her words, before he slowly nods.  The encroaching darkness in his eyes dissipates once again, replaced by the softness she can still never quite believe is for her.

“I’ll try,” he promises, and she leans down to kiss him, relieved, before settling against his side again.  “But I have one condition.”

“I suppose that’s only fair,” she mutters.

“You need to return the favour,” he says.  “If I must see myself as you do, then _you_ must see yourself as _I_ do.  That means not arguing with me when I tell you you’re beautiful.”

“But I’m—“

“What did I _just_ say?”

His tone is frustrated, but she can detect the humour behind it, so she tamps down all the responses she would usually employ to deflect such a comment.  She has gotten herself into this mess, but it’s a mess she can live with, probably: there are much worse things he could be saying to her, much worse things that he _did_ say to her, once upon a time.

“You drive a hard bargain, Ser,” she tells him with resigned tone.

“As do you, my lovely maid of Tarth.”

She snorts in amusement, a most unladylike noise.  “Not quite so maidenly any more, thanks to you.”

“I seem to recall that you were a more than willing participant in your own downfall.”

“You got me drunk!” she argues, and she feels the rumble of laughter in his chest.

“ _Tyrion_ got you drunk,” he reminds her, “and you certainly weren’t complaining at the time.”

They quarrel lightly back and forth for a few minutes more until Brienne loses patience and swats at his chest, though there is no force behind it and he can feel her smiling against his shoulder.  He reaches instinctively with his right hand to try and prevent her from doing it again, forgetting until the last second that there is no hand to speak of, his stump making contact with her palm.  He tries to jerk away, as yet unable to curb his immediate impulse to escape, but her fingers curl around the scarred end of his wrist to hold him steady and his heart _aches_ ; he is rendered suddenly speechless by the power of her affection for the most shameful part of him.

He knows, of course, that she does not see it that way, and he is very slowly coming around to her perspective.  He has not worn the golden hand since their return to Winterfell and cannot even say where it is, these days: Gendry could have melted it down in the foundry for all he cares.  It will take more time yet before he is fully accustomed to the new lightness of his arm, though he does not miss the way the metal appendage would freeze him half to death in the northern climate.

His arm is not the only thing which is unusually light, he realises as he takes stock of his current situation: Brienne nestled in his arms, the crackle of the fire in the grate now the only sound in the room, though only moments ago there had been laughter and jovial conversation between them.  He has never had the opportunity to enjoy such things before; it is a marvel, to share her bed, to enjoy her company, to joke with her, to stay until the morning and possibly even beyond.  (There is much less urgency, these days, while they wait for news from the South.)

The sky outside her window is still dark, hours to go before the sun edges over the horizon, and he knows full well they should try and get some more sleep before daybreak; as the temperature in the room increases again, he can already feel the pull of unconsciousness, and Brienne’s breathing is starting to slow as she also succumbs.  Except their reminiscence about the feast after the battle has reminded him of something very important which he now, urgently, needs to tell her.

He nudges her gently back to alertness, and although she protests, she reluctantly resurfaces.

“What now?” she asks a little impatiently.

“I have to tell you something,” he explains, realising too late that his tone comes across as more grave than intended, as Brienne lifts her head from his shoulder and fixes him with a slightly startled expression.  “It’s nothing bad – stop looking at me like that.”

“It must be serious if you’ve woken me up,” she counters.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t serious, I just said it wasn’t bad.  Lie back down.”

She is still sceptical, but does as he asks, and once she is settled again he rolls onto his side so he can face her properly.

“Well?” she asks.  “Come on, Jaime; out with it.  You’re worrying me.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” he says, hoping it come across as reassuring.  “I just… I just wanted you to know...  that night, the feast, Tyrion’s game.  That’s when I knew I loved you.”  She does not respond, merely stares at him levelly, assessing his words for their truth, and he feels the need to fill the silence.  “We’d survived against all the odds, and we were all together – you and me and Pod and my brother – and it felt so good to be alive, and _Gods_ , Brienne, your smile.  It made my head spin more than the wine ever could.  I would have done anything to make you laugh like that again, and I wanted to spend the rest of my days trying to achieve it.”

She thinks back to that night; in retrospect, it was more than obvious, their shared glances lingering a little longer than was strictly appropriate.  Tyrion and Podrick would surely have noticed, as well as anyone else in their immediate vicinity who might have had the inclination to look.  It was the first time Brienne could remember Jaime being so carefree, and in the moment she had put it down to post-battle relief, the presence of his brother and the influence of the finest wine from Winterfell’s stores.  She could not recall if his smile had ever reached his eyes before; any mirth directed towards her in their early days had been ironic and tainted with sarcasm; he had been sombre, after his return to the capital, and at every meeting between them after.

“You said it had been years,” she reminds him.

“It was,” he says, “but I didn’t realise it until then – or didn’t acknowledge it.  The feelings I’d been carrying around for you hadn’t changed, but suddenly they were blinding me.  I knew I loved you, but that night I fell head over heels _in_ love with you, and there was no going back.”

She remembers how flustered and nervous he had seemed after insinuating himself in her room, the reasons why suddenly now becoming all the more apparent.  Perhaps if they had both been braver about their feelings, things might have worked out differently.

“For me it was Harrenhal,” she admits quietly.  “That’s when it started, when I first saw the real you.  I knew it for certain when you gave me the armour.”  She decides not to dwell on the troubling exchange with his sister at Joffrey’s wedding, the Queen seeing straight through the façade she had so carefully constructed and making her question everything all over again.  Her voice takes on a wistful tone.  “I wish we’d both realised sooner.”

“It wasn’t the right time, for either of us.”

“I could have saved you from _her_.”

“My gallant knight,” he says, and pulls her closer into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers in a tender kiss.   “You _did_ save me.  You made me see that there was another path to travel, another choice to make.  I would choose you in every lifetime, Brienne.”

She smiles at that; not the radiant, beaming grin from the night after the battle, but it makes her eyes sparkle just as brightly and Jaime’s heart skip a beat just as unexpectedly.

“I’m perfectly content with this lifetime, for now.”

She buries her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, chasing the sleep he so rudely interrupted with his sudden need to bare his soul.

“Only for now?” he teases, smiling as she groans in frustration.

“Forever, then,” she mutters.  “Now stop talking and let me sleep, you wretch.”

He decides not to push his luck any further, even though that word – _forever_ – has sent his head spinning into too many scenarios to keep track of.  He very much suspects his own sleep will be evasive now, as he tries to make sense of the images bombarding his mind’s eye and talk himself out of doing something very impulsive, but he has no intention of disturbing Brienne any further – lack of sleep makes her grumpy, and it would not be fair on Podrick for him to bear the brunt of it in the training yard later.

Instead, he brushes a kiss to her temple and huddles down beneath the furs, pulling her close with an arm across her waist, and listens to her even breathing in the flickering firelight of the room.

Yes; he’s perfectly content with this lifetime, too.

—J|B—

A couple of days later, Brienne makes good on her promise – or her threat – of asking Jaime to help her with the children.  The building work has paused, for now, as the weather has taken a turn for the worst; a blizzard is blowing in, flurries of fine snow making visibility impossible and the stones too slippery to work safely.  Feeling restless without a purpose, Jaime readily agrees to join Brienne in her training of the youngsters.

They are certainly a handful, and he can see now why she has struggled to rein them in.  The eldest is barely past her tenth year, the youngest – a small boy with curly hair who reminds him fiercely of his brother as an infant – is merely four: not too young to hold a sword, but not quite old enough to retain instructions.  Regardless, he can already see a marked improvement from his brief moments of watching the proceedings from afar: there is generally more education occurring than chaos.

For the most part, his assistance comes in the form of demonstration, lightly sparring with Brienne.  The first time, Podrick does not so much _hand_ him a sparring weapon than _shove_ it at him with a scowl, clearly unhappy with his presence in the training yard.  Jaime has not attempted to plead forgiveness from Brienne’s loyal squire; he knows that she has spoken to Pod at great length, trying to get him to understand, and it will take some time before he is ready to make amends.  Still, when Brienne asks Jaime to spar with Podrick instead, so she can better explain a particular step or parry, Jaime lets him win and the amused smirk on his face is slightly less hostile than before.  In the spirit of good sportsmanship, Pod does at least extend a hand to Jaime to help him to his feet again, but his assistance is non-too-gentle as he hauls him upright.

As they start again, Jaime espies the unmistakable figure of Sansa Stark, watching from the battlements.  She has always looked at home in the North, in her stern clothing and ample furs; her flame-auburn Tully hair and striking blue eyes are bright and piercing against the whiteness of the landscape.  She is too far away to fully ascertain her expression, but her stance is not as tense as usual and he surmises she is merely passing the time and enjoying the spectacle.  Jaime himself has spent longer than he cares to admit watching Brienne teaching the children, so he can well appreciate Sansa’s curiosity; today, there is the additional entertainment of Podrick sending him sprawling in the mud, which is doubtless a more amusing sight for the Lady of Winterfell.

Three bouts later – another false loss on his part, one true win for Podrick, and a final victory for Jaime in an effort to preserve his reputation – Brienne finally takes pity on her exhausted and mud-splattered companions and enlists them, instead, in more practical training of the youngsters.  As the snow grows heavier, however, the children’s attention starts to wane, and the ground of the training yard becomes too treacherous with compacted snow for the lesson to continue.  Brienne announces that the day’s training is over and instructs the group to head inside for some food to warm them, tasking Podrick with rounding them up and ushering them back towards the castle, as she and Jaime collect up the discarded wooden swords and shields.

The children make it only halfway to the safety of the castle before a snowball fight breaks out, all of them scattering in random directions to find makeshift barricades, whilst pelting each other mercilessly.  Jaime is almost completely certain that the instigator of the war was Podrick (who is now cowering from a multi-pronged attack), though he refrains from saying so when he notices the surprised and slightly appalled expression on Brienne’s face.  For a moment, it almost looks as though she is going to admonish them, but as the sound of laughter and joyful shrieking carries audibly across the courtyard, she merely rolls her eyes and leaves them to it.

Up on the battlements, even Lady Sansa has cracked a smile at the antics below, leaning forward slightly against the stone wall to properly enjoy the view.

The training yard is almost presentable again, the sparring weapons all neatly stowed away and any evidence of the morning’s activities slowly disappearing beneath a cover of fine snow.  Jaime moves to right a felled dummy and skids slightly on a patch of ice, reaching for the sparse wooden barrier which encloses the yard to catch himself.  He lets go once he has found his balance, noticing that the snow has clung to his glove and created an almost perfect handprint on the railing.  He clenches his fist and the snow compacts tightly rather than crumbling, and he is struck with an idea so utterly ridiculous that he almost does not act on it.

Almost.

Brienne, satisfied that the training yard is neat and tidy once more, turns to Jaime and suggests that they should also move inside before the weather takes another turn.  He nods in agreement but gestures towards the still-fallen dummy, indicating for Brienne to carry on without him.  She warns him not to linger too long, knowing his propensity to never wear enough layers for the freezing temperatures of the North, but leaves him to finish the task.

Within mere seconds of walking away, she is stopped in her tracks by the unfamiliar sensation of something cold and solid impacting against her back.

She stops short and spins around, finding Jaime looking rather _too_ nonchalant with his arms clasped behind his back, and a telltale patch of bare wood on the wooden railing behind him.  She eyes him suspiciously.

“Did you just…?”

“Did I just…?” he repeats, feigning ignorance.  “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re—“

“You threw a snowball at me?” she accuses him incredulously.

“No?  I don’t think I did.”  He makes a show of looking around for the culprit.  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of the children?”

“Jaime.”  Her tone is weary, but there is a hint of a smile on her face.

“Brienne.”

There is a mischievous gleam in his eyes, something she has not seen since the feast, and it is enough to send her back across the yard towards him.  For a moment, she merely stares at him, carefully assessing the situation, before suddenly reaching behind his back to grab his left wrist, pulling it into her line of sight.  They both stare at the snow still clinging to his glove, before he lifts his head and gives her one of his infuriatingly charming smiles.

“Well, the evidence is certainly damning,” he comments, clearly amused with himself.  “What do you say, my lady?  Trial by combat?”

It takes her a moment to figure out what he means, and then her eyes widen in surprise.

“I have no intention _whatsoever_ of participating in—“

“Oh, come on, Brienne,” he pleads.  “We both grew up in the South.  I didn’t see my first snowfall until I was too old to enjoy it – not without earning a disdainful glare from my Lord father, anyway.”  He indicates the distant battle with a gesture of his head.  “You can’t tell me that doesn’t look like fun.”

Beyond the joyous fracas amongst the children, Podrick’s deeper laughter echoes across the courtyard, Sansa’s delighted giggle from above; despite the cold, Brienne’s heart begins to thaw.  As much as she hates to admit it, Jaime is right: she’s always wondered what the fuss is about.

“Very well, Ser Jaime.”  She extends a hand and he shakes it in agreement.  “May the best Knight win.”

He tugs her into a half-embrace, overwhelmingly pleased by her agreement, and she uses the movement to her advantage, quickly swiping up a handful of snow with her free hand and crushing it unceremoniously into his hair.  Before he can react, she takes off running, straight out of the yard and towards the Godswood.

By the time he recovers enough to go after her, she is already some distance away, weaving in and out of the trees as he gives chase.  Brienne has the significant advantage of an extra hand, creating sizable missiles to hurl in his direction, where he can do little except grab handfuls of snow, compact them down and hope that they retain enough integrity to land on target.  The tall pines bordering Winterfell make for perfect cover, and they both miss more often than not.

At some point, they are both hiding behind separate trees, only vaguely aware of each other’s whereabouts, and Jaime calls for a temporary cease-fire whilst he catches his breath.  He is met with silence in response and assumes Brienne is in agreement.  Then the crunch of snow nearby gives her away, as she attempts to sneak up on him; her arm emerges into his periphery, reaching around the tree from behind him with the intention of dumping a handful of snow over his head.  Instead, he grabs onto her wrist, drags her around in front of him and pivots, pressing her back against the rough bark.  She drops the snowball in her surprise, the force of the movement winding her slightly.

She looks completely dishevelled, with ice in her hair and her cheeks tinged pink from cold and exertion, and Jaime imagines he must look much the same, though Brienne undoubtedly wears it better.

“Gods above, wench, what part of ‘hold fire’ did you misunderstand?” he grumbles, still holding firm against her arm to pin her to the tree.

She smirks at him.  “There’s no mercy in war, Jaime.”

“I’m so glad we’re on the same side,” he mutters sarcastically, shaking his head in exasperation.  “Besides, this isn’t actually a war.  It’s just a bit of fun, though it is – I admit – considerably more strenuous than I was expecting.”

“The children don’t seem to be complaining.”

“Yes, well, when they get to our age—“

“To _your_ age, you mean.”

She’s trying to get a rise out of him, he knows, and he will not give her the satisfaction; they both enjoy taking verbal swipes at each other, when they are not speaking in softer and more serious tones.  Before, he would have found it irksome, but now it warms his heart, the comfort in their dialogue with each other so far removed from anything he’s experienced before.

There was never any affection behind his twin’s barbed words; they were only ever designed to hurt.  She would never have indulged in such an activity as this; he can easily imagine her sneering face if he had even so much as suggested it.

A flurry of snow carries through the trees with an icy blast, the drop in temperature jolting him back to reality as the unwelcome memory of his sister quietly fades away.  Brienne is wearing a slightly concerned expression and her hand is pressed against his upper arm; he must have looked far away for a moment.  He blinks, refocusing his attention, hoping to use her temporarily distracted state to his advantage.

“This apparently geriatric Knight appears to have the upper hand, Ser Brienne,” he points out.  “Do you yield?”

“No.”

Before he can respond, she grabs onto both of his arms, pushes away from the tree and spins them both around until their positions are reversed.  She shoves him against the trunk with much more force than he had used, the impact causing snow to fall from the upper branches and land in scattered piles all around them.

“I trust you’ve had time to recover your breath?” she asks.

“Well, I _had_ until you knocked it all out of me again,” he complains.

“Good,” she says, then kisses him firmly, just long enough for everything to become slightly blurred around the edges, before letting him go and stalking off.  He barely has time to recover his senses before she pelts him with a snowball, hitting him square in the chest, and when he looks up he finds her staring at him, poised to flee, waiting for him to react.  He eases himself away from the tree and stoops to gather up a handful of snow, flinging it haphazardly in her general direction before she can dodge out of the way; it clips her shoulder, and she lets out a noise midway between a giggle and a yelp before running off again.

As the second round sends them careening amongst the trees, they show no mercy, finding each other’s cover spots and attacking at close range.  In the ensuing chaos, Jaime loses sight of her for a moment, and he hesitates, listening intently in case she attempts another stealthy approach.  A sudden gust of wind both deafens and blinds him, and when there is still no sign of Brienne after it passes he starts to worry, wondering if she might have slipped and hurt herself somewhere in the woods. 

He is about to head off and look for her, when he finds himself halted by someone gripping the back of his collar, and in the next second a handful of snow is shoved inside the back of his coat.  For a moment he is frozen in shock, seizing up from the sudden cold, then shuddering violently, though that achieves little other than moving the snow further down his back.  He spins around and finds Brienne trying desperately not to laugh, biting her lip and almost shaking with the effort of containing herself.

“That was a dirty trick, Ser,” he admonishes her.

She emits a snort, but manages to control her amusement long enough to respond, in a mock-serious tone: “You let your guard down.  I was merely pressing my advantage.”

“By freezing me half to death?”

“You’d have managed that on your own.”

She’s probably right, but he won’t let her know that.  “Unless you want me to return the favour, you’d better start moving.”

Brienne does not need telling twice, turning on her heel and rushing off again; the snowball aimed towards her head misses by half an inch, and she veers off to the right.  Jaime is in pursuit, his movements slowed by the uncomfortable chill of his now-soaked shirt.  Their chase leads them out of the Godswood and into the open field,  where the snow is deeper – halfway to her knees – and much more difficult to navigate; Jaime follows her tracks, managing to gain on her as she struggles against a driving wind.

Eventually, it is too much of an effort to keep going, and Brienne slows to a stop; Jaime continues on, determined to reach her.  She turns, holding her arms up in surrender, but he finds a burst of energy from somewhere and barrels forwards with the intention of taking her down.  There is a flicker of panic in her face, but she quickly recovers and scoops up a generous handful of snow, intending to throw it at him to stop his approach.  By the time she straightens again, he is almost upon her, and she acts instinctively, kicking his legs out from underneath him as soon as he is close enough.  Before he hits the floor, he makes a desperate grab for the front of her clothing and brings her down with him.

He lands heavily on his back in the snow, Brienne collapsing on top of him; he tries his best to cushion her descent, but they are both winded from the fall, their hysterical laughter emerging slightly breathless in the aftermath.  Brienne is the first to recover and she attempts to right herself, finding it difficult in the powdery snow, which both crumbles and compacts whenever she tries to find any purchase.  Eventually, with some assistance from Jaime, she manages to sit upright in his lap, her knees astride his hips.  He makes a vain effort himself to sit up, but he has run out of energy for now and gives up again, letting his head fall back with a defeated chuckle.

“Yield,” she says, a lightness to her tone.

He looks up at her, intending to speak, but finds himself struck dumb instead.  Brienne looks _ridiculous_ , with her cheeks florid from the cold, her hair soaked with melted snow and hanging loose around her face, her eyes bright with amusement and shining with that particular shade of blue that makes his heart jump into his throat, and Jaime thinks she might be the most stunning thing he’s ever seen in his life.

When he does not respond, she reaches for another handful of snow and raises it threateningly.

“ _Yield,_ ” she repeats, her voice lilting with barely-suppressed laughter, and her face lights up with the same relaxed and un-self-conscious smile as during Tyrion’s drinking game, and for the briefest of moments Jaime forgets how to breathe.  Unaware of his inner struggle, she pulls her arm back with the intention of aiming the snowball at his head, hoping to elicit a reaction.

“Marry me.”

She freezes, the snowball dropping out of her grip to land unceremoniously in the snow beside them with a dull thud, and her face drops into a mask of confusion and shock, her gaze searching his.

“I—  What?”

Jaime is not entirely certain if he intended to blurt that out, but he has no intention whatsoever of taking it back.  The thought has been rolling around his brain for longer than he cares to admit, and for the past few days it has consumed him mercilessly.  He had already asked her, after a fashion, that frozen morning at the tavern, but not in as many words, and in just as few words she had almost accepted.  This is different; it’s realer; it’s a truth he’s wanted to make a reality for weeks, for months, maybe even for years.

She is staring at him intently, a hint of suspicion colouring her features, and he reaches up to gently grasp her arm, grounding her.

“Marry me, Brienne.”  His tone is softer, the second time, letting her know he’s serious.

“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not very funny,” she retorts, and to his dismay there are tears brimming in her eyes, despite the cynical edge to her voice.  His need to reassure her is great enough to force him upright, despite the awkward position; Brienne tries to move away but his arms encircle her waist, holding her firm so she cannot escape.

“It’s not a joke,” he says.  “I promise, I would never make light of this.”

“But I…”  She swallows thickly, choking back her emotions.  “Why would you want to—?“

“Because I made the greatest mistake of my life when I tried to walk away from you, and I want to spend whatever years I have left making up for it,” he tells her adamantly, and before he can stop himself a litany pours out of his soul.  “Because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.  Because I want to fall asleep in your arms every night, and wake up every morning to see those astonishing eyes staring back at me.  Because I came all the way here to fight and die by your side, and the Gods saw fit to let me live, and our time in this world is too brief not to go after the things we want most.”

That, he now realises, is the very crux of it.  Brienne searches his face, assessing his words for their truth; his heart aches with the need to erase whatever hurts she must have experienced before now, to cause her to doubt him so strongly.

"The… the things we want most…”  She repeats the words back to him, slightly dazed, and there is a question in her eyes.

“I want _you_ ,” he states plainly, reaching up to caress her face; her skin is warm beneath his palm, her bedraggled hair almost frozen solid where it brushes against his fingertips.  “You, and this, and us, for the rest of my days.”

“I… I want that, too,” she admits quietly.  “But _marriage_ , Jaime, that’s—“

“Too sudden a development?  Yes, well, I’m an impulsive fool,” he reminds her with a smile, his arm winding around her waist again.  “You’ve known that for years.”

“A marriage proposal is a little more significant than jumping into a bear pit,” she points out.  “It’s considerably more permanent.”

“I understand perfectly well how significant it is,” he says.  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t really _ask_ me, you _told_ me,” she points out.

“I did, didn’t I?” he realises with a delighted expression.  “In that case, you don’t have much of a choice.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, but says nothing more; some of the tension has eased from her shoulders, a subtle indication that he is slowly wearing her down.  Still, he knows better than to keep pushing.  With the weather showing no signs of abating, they could both do with getting inside and warmed up, before they succumb to frostbite.  Even the children have given up, the snowball fight long abandoned.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he reassures her.  “If you need time to think—“

“Yes,” she blurts out, surprising herself as well as him, chewing on her lip in embarrassment.  Jaime’s heart performs a somersault in his chest, but he tries to tamp it down; he needs to be absolutely sure.

“Is that ‘yes’ as in, ‘yes, I need time to think’, or…”

“ _Yes_ , I’ll marry you.”

He can do nothing except stare at her, his brain momentarily frozen, Brienne’s acceptance finishing what the frigid outside temperature had already started.  When he does not respond for some considerable time, she becomes concerned.

“Jaime?  Are you—“

He interrupts by surging towards her and capturing her mouth in a desperate kiss, communicating his relief and love and absolute joy; his lips are cold against hers, his nose icy against her face, and she’s sure hers must be too, but _Gods_ , she really could not care less because she’d happily die of exposure before letting this moment end.  Her gloved hands raise to encircle his face, and she pushes up on her knees so he’s forced to lean up to keep kissing her, and the contented rumble that emerges from his throat is familiar and satisfying, lighting up a preciously-guarded corner of her mind: _he is mine and I am his and I want nothing more than this for the rest of my days._

Another flurry blows across the clearing on a sudden gust of wind, chilling them both to the point of shivering and finally breaking them apart.  Brienne leans down, pressing her forehead to his for a moment whilst she catches her breath, before finally getting to her feet.  It is a struggle, with the snow and her own seized-up limbs conspiring against her, but once she is steady she extends a hand to Jaime to help him up.    He stumbles as he rises, his legs numb from Brienne’s weight above and the icy ground below, and when she grasps his arm to steady him he leans further into her and presses another kiss to her mouth, soft and affirming.

He complains about the cold and his half-frozen arse all the way back to the castle, as though it had not been his idea to spend the best part of an hour behaving like children, but Brienne cannot regret a single moment of it.

Above them, from her position on the battlements, Lady Sansa has been watching.  Her intention was to return indoors once the children had finished playing, but the noise and movement within the Godswood had alerted her attention.  The last thing she had expected was to see her sworn-sword and former good-brother chasing each other through the trees and out into the open field, covered in half-melted ice and laughing like adolescents, before collapsing on top of each other in the snow.  She had smiled as she watched them, reminded of happier days with Arya and Bran and Rickon, when they would run around these very fields themselves and get into similar antics. 

She was not exactly sure what transpired after that, though it had been evident from their body language that something was afoot; Sansa felt a protective urge rise up within her as Brienne had tensed, the set of her shoulders clearly suggesting that she was upset about something.  It simmered down again soon enough, as Jaime sought to mend whatever he’d said, and shortly after that Sansa had averted her eyes with a blush that set her face ablaze.  _Oh.  Well.  They’ve obviously sorted that out, then._

The familiar figure of Samwell Tarly distracts her, his usually jovial face set into a serious expression.

“Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

Samwell stutters at the title, never quite feeling as though it belongs to him.  “We’ve news from the South, milady.  A letter has arrived from Jon—  I mean, Aegon.” He smiles at his error.  “It takes some getting used to, that.”

“I’ll receive it in the library.  Thank you.”

Samwell nods politely and heads back indoors.  When Sansa returns her gaze to the field below, both Jaime and Brienne are slowly making their way back, still in high spirits.  Regardless of Sansa’s own misgivings about the elder Lannister brother, it warms her heart to see Brienne so happy, to see them _both_ so devoted to each other.

Whatever message has come from Kings Landing, whatever the outcome of the war, it has the potential to change everything, upset the delicate balance she has been maintaining in the North.

The last time there was news from the South, Brienne’s heart got broken, and Sansa does not know if enough has changed, in the meantime, to prevent that from happening again.  It seems ridiculous, in many ways, to be so concerned about that, when there are so many greater things to be worrying about… but Sansa is still a romantic girl at heart, and Brienne is the closest thing she has to a family now that Arya and Jon— _Aegon_ have left to join the war.  (She would never admit it, not to him, barely even to herself, but she misses Tyrion also, and Jaime has a look about him sometimes which reminds her of his brother, the way he gazes at Brienne so similar to how Tyrion would stare at her, once upon a time, when he thought she wasn’t looking.)

With a determined nod, Sansa makes her way to the library to receive the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this fluff too shameless? Well, tough; it’s only gonna get worse. ;)
> 
> (I was going to leave Jaime hanging, but he deserves a bit of reprieve from All The Angst.)
> 
> Also, regarding Brienne wanting Jaime to leave his demons at the door: I totally think this is something she would ask of him, but it makes me feel a bit iffy in a coercive-control sort of way, and I was trying to tread a fine line between good intentions vs. bad implementation. Obviously I don’t believe she would ever do such a thing to intentionally hurt him – it’s coming from a place of wanting to help him and I hope that came across – and Jaime is so damaged from his life with Cersei that he probably wouldn’t even see it in that way, but… yeah, anyway, there it is. I don’t imagine anyone else even read all of that into it, but I wanted to cleanse my soul regardless.
> 
> Also also, I saw a post on Tumblr recently which mentioned a scene in the books where Jaime is watching some children playing in the snow and lamenting his inability to make snowballs; I actually came up with the idea of the snowball fight before I read that post, but it’s heartening to know it’s at least vaguely in character, even though I’m generally writing in show-canon. (I desperately need to find time to read the books one of these days because the more I learn about book!Jaime, the harder it hits me in the feels.)
> 
> Anyway, sorry, I keep turning these end notes into weird essays on Toxic Relationships in Westeros (I want to send D&D on domestic abuse awareness training, quite frankly). Final chapter coming (hopefully) soon, which will deal with the outcome of the war.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope it was worth the wait!


	11. North IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild update appears!
> 
> Confession: I intended this to be the final chapter, but (true to form) the story had other ideas and I had to split it up. Evidently, I didn’t get it finished before my house move, so apologies for that – everything ended up taking a lot longer than I expected and it knocked the writing mojo out of me for a bit. In the meantime, I’ve also had a funeral to deal with, managed to injure myself falling down the stairs, had a summer cold, the UK was in the throes of a heatwave, and my day job has continued to be unrelentingly busy – all in all, not a conducive environment for getting any kind of writing done. Despite all of that, I tried to keep all of the elements of my ending fresh in my brain so I wouldn’t forget them when the time came.
> 
> I promised a happy ending this time around, and hopefully the absolutely ridiculous fluff of the next chapter will not disappoint, though sadly there is still some angst to wade through before we get there. I always think happy endings are better if you earn them. ;)
> 
> I am going on holiday tomorrow for just over a fortnight and whilst I am intending to get some writing done (on this and some other Braime story ideas I have brewing) I can’t guarantee anything – and it’s very unlikely I’d be able to post any of it – so I decided to leave you all with this (apparently) penultimate chapter. It’s mostly filler, TBH, but it’s leading somewhere, I promise…
> 
> Hopefully the _actual_ final chapter will not take me quite so long to finish. (Famous last words...)
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for your patience!

When Brienne is summoned to her lady’s chambers, she truly cannot predict what it might be about, and her stomach churns with anxious queasiness.  She strides purposefully through Winterfell’s corridors, to reach her destination as quickly as possible, and tries to prevent herself from imagining all the worst case scenarios that could have prompted Lady Sansa to request her presence.  Her mind conjures them up regardless. 

Perhaps there is news of Arya: the devastating possibility that she has somehow not survived, Brienne having failed to protect the younger Stark girl as badly as she failed her men on the battlefield.  Has Kings Landing been razed to ashes as they both feared?  That seems almost inevitable.  Maybe Lady Sansa has finally grown tired of hosting a Lannister and wishes to send Jaime away; Brienne does not think she will be able to make a choice, if one is offered.  Or, if the war has been won peacefully, Sansa may not be in need of Brienne’s services at all any more, and she will be once again rudderless, a Knight without a purpose, unless… _Gods_ , unless the news is about her father.  This last, in fact, makes her pause mid-stride, her breath stuttering with sudden anxiety, and she has to take a moment to compose herself before continuing on.

As she finally approaches the door of Lady Sansa’s chambers, Brienne shakes the rambling thoughts from her head, steeling herself as she would for any fight, before knocking sharply to announce her presence.  A distant call from within compels her to enter, and she pushes open the heavy door.

“You asked for me, my Lady?”

The room is dimly lit by candles and a fire blazing in the hearth, the sky beyond the windows turning dark as dusk settles around Winterfell.  Lady Sansa is seated at her writing desk, as poised as ever, her stern clothing in direct opposition to her flame-vibrant hair, which is trussed into an elaborate arrangement of braids piled neatly around her head.  As Brienne enters the room, Sansa lifts her head and nods, indicating for her to sit.  Her countenance is unreadable, which does nothing to ease Brienne’s increasing nerves.

Once she is seated, Sansa offers her a cup of wine; it is most unlike her to indulge in drink, so the situation must be serious.  Brienne politely rejects the offer, feeling uneasy enough without the influence of alcohol.  (She had learned soon enough after the feast that it did not agree with her in the slightest – a realisation which Jaime, of course, had found endlessly amusing despite the fact his own hangover was just as bad as hers.  Their mutually pounding headaches had distracted them from having the serious conversation that probably should have ensued: a conversation that might have solved a lot of subsequent errors, in retrospect.)

“Thank you for coming, Lady Brienne,” she begins, and then smiles in contrition at her own error.  “My apologies – _Ser_ Brienne.”

Hearing the title always raises a smile on her face, despite the intervening weeks, but it is quickly replaced with a frown of concern.  She struggles to find the pleasantries to engage in small-talk, and would prefer to get things over with quickly.

“I admit, your request to see me has troubled me deeply, my Lady.”

Sansa averts her eyes apologetically and then leans back in her chair.  “I’m sorry if I worried you.  Perhaps I should have been more specific when sending the message.  I only wish to seek your counsel.”

“I… will advise you as best I can,” she promises, though she hopes fervently the topic of discussion will not be overly political.

Sansa nods and reaches for her cup of wine, though she does not lift it to drink, merely taps the side thoughtfully with her fingers as though deliberating over something.  Eventually, after a moment of silence, she lifts a sturdy paperweight – cast iron in the shape of a direwolf – and extracts a letter from beneath it.

“I’ve received a letter from Jon,” she explains.  “About the war.”

“What of it?”

“Queen Cersei has been defeated.”  She allows the gravity of the news to settle before continuing, though her relief at the news is tangible, a wry smile edging onto her face.  “I don’t know the details, except that Daenerys is on the Iron Throne.  Jon has assured me that the city is still standing and my fears about his Dragon Queen were unfounded.  A messenger is travelling North to debrief me further; I imagine he will arrive in a few days’ time.“

“If I may say, my Lady,” proffers Brienne, “that all seems very… definite.  I’m not sure what advice you’re seeking from me.”

With a sigh, Sansa replaces the letter beneath the paperweight again, and clasps her hands in front of her on the desk.

“You are the first person I’ve told,” she admits.

“I’m… I’m honoured, but—“

“Please, let me finish.”

Brienne forces herself to be quiet, allowing Sansa to continue.  The younger woman looks thoughtful for a moment, before rising from the chair and crossing the room slowly to approach the window, gathering her thoughts.  Brienne merely watches, remaining seated, as Sansa stares out at the dark, wintry vista beyond, before turning back to the room and addressing her companion.

“The last time we received news from the South,” she explains, “I…  I was not tactful in my approach to Ser Jaime.  I let my feelings about his sister cloud my judgement, and I behaved reprehensibly.  Our two families have been enemies for decades, but Ser Jaime is no more responsible for his sister’s behaviour than I am for Arya’s.”  Sansa pauses, considering her next words.  “When he left Winterfell, I was furious with him – as I’m sure you were, too.  Then, when you went after him, I was furious with you, as well – not just because you left without informing me, but because I didn’t understand why you would do such a thing.  To me, his actions felt very… well, _final –_ and I could not see any sensible reason for you to make yourself vulnerable to being hurt again.”

For a moment, Sansa seems very far away, her eyes hardening with remembered agony.  She turns away to the window before speaking again.

“I am accustomed to pain,” she admits, “and anger is something I am also very well acquainted with.  Nothing would persuade me to chase after someone who had caused me to experience both.  I have always trusted your judgement, Ser Brienne, but in this, I fear, I could not see your logic.  Bran and Podrick attempted to explain it to me, but my brother is – you may have noticed – a little too enigmatic to be straightforward, and your squire was perhaps also too angry with Ser Jaime to be objective.”

She heaves a frustrated sigh, and is silent for some time.  Whatever she wishes to say, it is clear she is struggling to find the words.

“My Lady?”

Sansa shivers, catching a draught from the window, and moves closer to the fire.

“I was watching you both yesterday,” she confesses eventually.  “In the snow.  I don’t know what happened, and you don’t need to tell me – whatever you discussed is between you and Ser Jaime – but it finally made me realise why you went after him.  To see you together like that – I don’t think I’ve seen you so happy before.”  Her face lights up with a sudden warmth.  “You truly love him, don’t you?”

Brienne feels a blush colouring her face, more from embarrassment that she and Jaime had attracted an audience that day than anything else, though it is perhaps also the first time she has admitted her feelings to someone other than their recipient.

“I…  yes, my Lady.  I do.”

“I’m not sure he deserves you,” she adds thoughtfully.

“Funnily enough, he would probably agree with you.”  Sansa gives her a questioning expression, and as Brienne continues, she returns to her seat at the desk.  “Ser Jaime is… complicated,” she explains.  “He had his reasons for leaving Winterfell, but you should know that his departure was not as a result of anything you might have said.  I wish to reassure you of that, first and foremost.  Whilst I still do not fully understand what was going through his head that night, I believe he was trying to do the right thing.  When I caught up with him, I gave him a choice, between Kings Landing and Winterfell, and… he chose Winterfell.  He chose _me_.”

She pauses a moment, allowing the gravity of that decision to fully settle in Sansa’s mind, before continuing.

“His reputation precedes him, but that’s not… that’s not the Jaime I know.  It’s not my place to tell his secrets, but suffice it to say that the things people say about him are far from the truth.”  Something becomes obvious to her, and she shakes her head a little in exasperation.  “I daresay he has hidden behind those things for some time; it makes it much easier not to care, when people care little for you.”

“But he _does_ care about you,” Sansa points out thoughtfully.  “More than that, I hope.”

“He loves me,” she says, and it still feels strange to admit it, to say it out loud rather than acknowledging it only to herself.  “It’s hard to believe, sometimes, but I know he does.”

“How can you be certain?”  Sansa’s face immediately colours with mortification and she quickly explains: “Forgive me; I don’t wish to cause you any doubt.  I only mean, how is _anyone_ certain?”

Brienne smiles, a little bewildered; for all of Sansa’s grace and intelligence, for all of her terrible experiences, she is still a naïve girl in many respects.

“I am no wiser than you in matters of the heart,” she confesses.  “As for Jaime… well, he’s told me as much.  My father always said that _‘words are wind’_ , and although he meant that I should not take insults to heart, I have often mistrusted people’s words regardless of their intent.  But I trust Jaime: with this as with everything else.”  Brienne hesitates before continuing, a little nervous to share her latest news with Sansa, but as Lady of Winterfell it is likely to become her business soon enough anyway.  “He… he’s asked me to marry him.  And I’ve agreed.”

Sansa’s face flickers through a variety of emotions, from surprise to scepticism to concern, before eventually settling on delight, her mouth upturning in a genuinely pleased smile.

“Truly?”  Brienne nods, not trusting herself to speak.  “I’m so happy for you, Brienne.  As long as you’re sure…”

“I am,” she says.  “Thank you, for your blessing.  It means a lot to me.”

“Have you decided when?” asks Sansa, her face lighting up with excitement, looking suddenly like the young girl with romantic dreams that she had been, once upon a time – before Joffrey, before Cersei, before everything.  “Should we start the preparations?  How many people are you expecting?”

Sansa rattles off question after question, not waiting for a response before moving onto the next one, until Brienne finally interrupts her with an exasperated groan.  The younger woman quietens with an embarrassed flush, realising how carried away she had gotten.

“My apologies, Ser Brienne.  I spent so many years imagining my own wedding, and neither of them met my high expectations.”  At that, Brienne feels a pang of guilt and sorrow.  “I suppose I’m just excited to be planning someone else’s.  I mean… that is, if you want me to?”

“I honestly had not even thought that far ahead.  It’s been barely a day since he asked me, and we haven’t spoken of it since.  There didn’t seem much point, until after the war.”

“But now the war is over…”

“Yes.”

“Speaking of which.”  Sansa adopts a more business-like posture again, remembering why she had summoned Brienne in the first place.  “I will let you break the news of Queen Cersei’s defeat to Ser Jaime yourself.  You know him far better than I, and I think he will appreciate it more, coming from you.  If he wishes to be present when the messenger arrives, he is more than welcome to attend.  If he does not, I will understand.”

“I…  Thank you, my Lady.  I will let him know.  Is there anything else you need?”

“No, nothing.  Thank you, Brienne.”

With a nod, Brienne rises from the desk and heads towards the door.  As she heaves it open again, she glances back into the room; Lady Stark is staring out of the window with a troubled expression, already lost in her own thoughts.  Brienne cannot begrudge her uncertainty; the defeat of the Lannister queen is  undoubtedly good news, but the price paid for Daenerys’s victory is not yet known.  Until the messenger arrives and provides a full account, the true outcome of the war, the extent of the damage, will remain a mystery.

For Brienne’s part, she has no idea how best to tackle the delicate subject of Jaime’s sister.  She is more sure of his loyalties than she has ever been, but cannot begin to fathom how he will take the news.  He is not likely to run off into the night, this time: not to _her_ , at least, not to Kings Landing.  There’s nothing more he can do in the capital now that Daenerys has been victorious, though it’s very likely that everyone will convene there eventually to decide on the future of the country.

She wonders if there will be a place for the Lannisters, in the Dragon Queen’s new world.

—J|B—

It takes her some time to locate him.  He is not in their quarters, and nobody has seen him in the Great Hall or the kitchens; he cannot be found in any of his usual indoor haunts.  Venturing outside, Brienne finds that the training yard is also empty.  At the stables, she is relieved to note that all of the horses are still present; the ostler snorts derisively when she asks after Jaime, and she takes his response as a negative, but he does at least lend her a lantern so she can search the grounds.

When she eventually discovers his whereabouts, it is almost by accident: from across the courtyard, a distant glow at the top of the broken tower catches her eye. 

It’s the place he always disappears to, when he wants to escape from the castle.  Winterfell is far less populated, these days, compared to his arrival and the days surrounding the Long Night, but the majority of its occupants still barely tolerate his presence.  It seems an unlikely location to be drawn to, but he feels a kind of grim satisfaction in returning to the scene of the crime: the parapet from which he once shoved a young Bran Stark and set him on the path to becoming the Three-Eyed Raven.  It is quiet in the tower, though the climb to the top is exhausting and the uppermost room is even more of a ruin than it was all those years ago, exposed to the elements and bitterly cold in the Northern winter.

Brienne makes her way slowly up the stairs, ensuring her footsteps are clearly audible so Jaime is not startled by her arrival.  When she emerges into the room, she finds him sitting cross-legged on the dusty stone floor, huddled in his furs and staring out at the castle grounds and scenery beyond, though it is little more than the dark outline of trees against a grey, snow-heavy sky.  He does not react to her presence, even as she draws to a halt behind him.

“I’ve been looking all over the castle for you.”

His only response is to bundle himself further into his furs, both from the coldness still clinging to Brienne and a sudden blast of icy air through the crumbling window.

“Come on, Jaime.  Come back inside where it’s warm.  It’s freezing up here.”

He ignores her suggestion.  “Did you manage to speak with Lady Sansa?”

“Yes.  That’s actually why I came to find you.  She—“

“Ah, has she grown tired of me, finally?”

“Of course not.” 

His sarcasm is an obvious front, though Brienne is not sure, as yet, for what.  He will not turn to face her, and a tendril of concern is curling in her gut.  She is more than familiar with his occasional bouts of dark melancholy, but his timing today could not be worse: the news from Sansa cannot wait, and Brienne has no desire to sit on it any longer than she has to.  She does not want to keep secrets from Jaime, not when a messenger is arriving imminently; her first instinct is to protect him from any further heartache, but this is a wound best dealt with before it has a chance to fester.

He is not yet ready to leave the tower, and she knows that is partly her own fault: he is merely honouring his promise to deal with his demons on his own terms.  She realises now how selfish it was to ask such a thing, though it did not feel so, at the time.

With a sigh, she settles down beside him on the cold stone floor, bundling her own furs tightly around herself.  She tries to find a gentle way of breaking the news, but eventually decides it would be easier to tell him plainly.

“There has been word from the South,” she says.

“Have we won?”  His tone is sardonic, and she frowns in response.

“If you’re referring to Queen Daenerys, then yes – she has been victorious.”  Jaime nods at that, but continues staring ahead.  “Little else is known, beyond that, though Lady Sansa informed me that she took the Throne as peacefully as possible.  Your… your sister has been defeated.”

“Dead,” he suggests, though it does not sound like a question.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.  She is.”  He shakes his head.  “I can’t explain why.  I just know.”

Brienne has no idea how to respond to that, sensing that any comforting words would be hollow and contrived, but Jaime does not dwell on the point.

“Did Sansa ask you to speak with me?”

“Yes.  She entrusted me to share this with you, Jaime.  She… she apologised for her behaviour, the last time we had news from the South.  I know that brings you little comfort, but she is truly sorry for how she spoke to you that day.  I hadn’t realised until now, but she blamed herself for your departure.”

“Very magnanimous,” he mutters, practically inaudible, and Brienne will not stand for his sarcasm this time.

“I know you don’t trust her, but—“

“Oh, I trust her well enough,” he says.  “But I imagine the feeling is not mutual, so you’ll forgive me if I find her sudden concern for my welfare just a little out of character.”

“It’s not _your_ welfare she’s concerned about,” argues Brienne, and Jaime huffs in irritation but remains otherwise quiet.  “I won’t deny that her opinion of you is still tainted by your family’s actions, and you can hardly blame her for that.  Your brother was always kind to her, but he was the exception to the rule.  You may not have been personally responsible for what happened to her, but it will take her some time to understand what I’ve known all along: that you are not your sister, nor your father.”

Jaime drops his head to stare into his lap, before he finally responds.

“Tell her I accept her apology.”  This time, his tone is sincere.  “And if you haven’t already, please reassure her that she was not to blame for my decision to leave.”

“She knows that, now.”

Jaime acknowledges her with a slight nod, and then raises his head again to continue his vigil out of the window.  Brienne follows the line of his gaze but cannot see what is so fascinating; he is usually the first to complain about the blankness of the landscape.  When he is not forthcoming with further conversation, she continues with her original intention.

“I wish there was more I could tell you, but Jon Snow’s letter was sparse on details.  A messenger should be arriving in a few days.  Lady Sansa has invited you to attend, but if you choose not to be present, I’ll be happy to share the news with you after… if that’s easier.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” he says, and she does not push him any further.

In the silence, even from this distance, she can almost hear the wind whistling through the distant trees of the Godswood.  The snow which had assaulted Winterfell yesterday has dwindled to little more than dusty flurries, though another storm seems inevitable by morning.  The castle’s repairs have been put on hold until the weather is clear, so Jaime has had nothing to occupy himself with today, and scarce company other than his own thoughts.

The events of the previous day already seem a distant memory, with Jaime’s demeanour so sombre and serious by comparison to the laughter and joy they had shared.  It’s nothing new, of course: she’s seen him like this before, but struggles to remember exactly when.  His arrival North feels as though it was years ago, though in reality it has been a matter of months.  The extended winter, the events of the Long Night, the almost perpetual snowfall, have all made time pass more slowly.

Regardless, they cannot spend the night in the broken tower, and she needs some way to encourage him back to the warmth of the castle.

“Whatever’s troubling you, Jaime, I’d rather you just told me.”

He hesitates before answering.  “I wouldn’t wish to burden you with it.”

She flushes, feeling her chest compress with guilt and shame, and strives to right the wrong she has inadvertently created.

“I’ve agreed to become your wife,” she says.  “It’s my job to _share_ your burdens.”

Her gentle reminder of their new arrangement raises a hint of a smile on his face, and he turns to look at her for the first time since her arrival.  There is none of the blankness she had feared; the darkness has not overtaken him.  His expression is solemn, but still he tries to reassure her.

“It’s nothing that won’t pass of its own accord.”

“You’ve been having nightmares.”

“We survived a battle against an undefeatable foe,” he explains, turning away again.  “Bad dreams are part of the territory.”

Brienne knows this keenly; her own dreams have been haunted by an onslaught of perpetually-marching wights who rise as soon as they are felled, the screams of soldiers, the ghastly shriek of an undead dragon; she has woken to the cloying stench of decay and smoke, the pyres still burning days into the aftermath, somehow encroaching through the castle walls.  In time, her visions have abated, and so have Jaime’s.  His latest nightmares are something new, somewhere just beyond her reach.

“No, these are different.  You wake up shouting, or fighting me off when I try to hold you.  You won’t _talk_ to me, Jaime.  I can’t help you if you keep shutting me out.”

When his only response is a continued silence and a blank stare into the night, she takes a more decisive approach, reaching for his face and drawing it around, forcing him to look at her.  His surprise is evident, and for a few seconds he tries to avoid her gaze, but she will not relent and when his eyes lock to hers, she sees the shutters slowly open as he finally lets her in.  He raises his hand to gently grasp her wrist, and for the briefest of moments her heart clenches in fear, remembering the last time they had been such a position; but he does not let go, and when he leans his forehead against hers they both release a breath in relief.

Jaime closes his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts, summoning up the images that have been cursing his sleep.

“Wildfire,” he says by way of explanation.  “Or dragon fire.  Kings Landing turning to ashes, all of its people screaming as they burn.  I can’t stop it – I’m not fast enough.  And Cersei is caught in the middle of it all, crying for help, and I—  I can’t reach her.  She burns before my eyes.  Or we both do.  Sometimes I get to her in time, persuade her to give up the fight, but the castle is crumbling and we both get crushed before we can escape.”

He pulls away so he can look at her, relinquishing his grip on her arm so he can touch her face instead.

“But it’s changed lately.  It’s not Cersei I see any more – it’s _you_.  Burning alive, or tortured by the Mountain, or… or turned into one of those _things_ , so I have to kill you myself – with your own fucking _sword_ , Brienne, right through your heart.”  He takes a shuddering breath, his hand dropping away.  “That’s how I know she’s gone.  She’s no longer the subject of my nightmares.  You were right: I couldn’t have saved her.”

“And you won’t need to save me, either,” she reassures him.  “Queen Daenerys took the Throne without dragon fire, and I have no intention of provoking her into burning me.  I’m far from Kings Landing and the Mountain.  The Night King is gone.”

“I know,” he says.  “I know they’re just visions, but sometimes they’re so _real_ , and I can’t—“

“I’m _here_ , Jaime.  We’re both safe at Winterfell.  The war’s over.”

“There’ll always be war,” he mutters.  “Peace doesn’t last forever.”

“Perhaps not,” she agrees, “but we have it for now.  Even if you can’t believe that, believe in me. Believe in _us_.”

After what seems to be an interminable pause, he finally nods.

“I do.  _Gods_ , I really do.”  His eyes close, his entire demeanour relaxing, and when he meets her gaze again, she is relieved to note that some of the hauntedness has left his expression.  “Thank you, Brienne.”

“For what?”

“Putting up with me,” he suggests, with a hint of self-deprecation.  “I don’t mean to be like this.”

She is struggling to find a response which will not sound contrived or patronising, so instead she merely presses a kiss to his forehead; he exhales on a slight shudder, his breath fanning against her neck.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she withdraws again.  “I didn’t want you to feel as though you had to hide, or that you couldn’t trust me with this.”

“You meant well,” he reassures her.  “Because you think I’m a good man—“

She interrupts him by reaching for his face again.  “I _know_ you are, and one day you will see that for yourself.  But in the meantime, please don’t feel that you have to conceal things from me.  Whatever happens, we can tackle it together.”

“You would have all of me, then?  The good and the bad?”

“Yes, and everything in between.  How could I _not_?  You’ve given me all I’ve ever wanted, and more besides.  If there’s only one good thing to come from this awful war, it’s that we found each other.”

He would kiss her, if not for the memory of this place; he does not want the shadow of his sister, of his terrible deeds, to taint this new chapter in his life.  Instead, he wraps her into his embrace, squeezing tighter when she reciprocates, his chin coming to rest against her fur-clad shoulder, and they remain like that for a long moment.

It is only when Brienne shifts away from him that he jolts upright, as though startled awake, and she notices for the first time how utterly exhausted he looks.  She cannot say how long the nightmares have been plaguing him, but they are starting to take their toll.

Eventually, she persuades him to leave the tower and join her in the main castle, and they descend the treacherous steps in single file.  As they emerge into the main courtyard, the warm glow of Winterfell’s interior seems all the more inviting compared to the frozen darkness, and it is enough to make Jaime press onwards a little more quickly.

They make their way to her chambers in relative silence, other than a brief exchange with Podrick to inform him they will be skipping supper tonight, and on finally entering the room, the heat from the hearth saps the final reserves of Jaime’s energy.  As the door closes, he almost collapses to the floor, but Brienne maintains a grip on his arm to keep him upright.

He is too far gone to help himself, and she manages to divest him of his furs and heavy outer clothing before propelling him gently towards the bed.  He is alert enough to extend a hand in invitation, and to emit a slightly petulant whine at her initial refusal, and it is enough to weaken her resolve.   She is not tired yet, but knows that he needs the company and quiet strength of her presence; besides, she has grown rather fond of watching him sleep, to see him find a moment of rare peace amongst his usual turmoil.

She strips down to breeches and tunic and slides beneath the blankets, and Jaime immediately huddles close to her, burying his face against her neck as he burrows into her arms with a contented hum.  She is overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotion, and has to swallow the lump in her throat, willing away the tears prickling her eyes.  With any luck, he will be fast asleep within seconds and unaware of her dilemma.

“Brienne…” he breathes, and for a second she is not sure if he is merely talking in his sleep, before he speaks again:  “Take me away with you.”

“Jaime?”

“When you leave this place… take me away.  Take me to Tarth.  Anywhere.  I’ll go anywhere.  Just promise you won’t leave me behind.”

“Where has this come from?”

“Please.  _Swear_ it, Brienne.”

His arm around her waist squeezes tighter, in desperation, and she is still not entirely certain if he is fully aware of his words, but she strives to reassure him nonetheless:

“I… I swear it, Jaime.”

His grip relents, his arm becoming slack and heavy, as he finally succumbs to sleep.  Brienne cannot help but feel vaguely troubled, as she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, and hopes that his unprecedented request is merely a reflection of another nightmare, perhaps one he is not quite ready to admit.  She may not be able to chase away his demons, but she can fight them alongside him; she can remind him of reality when his dreams become too vivid.

She hopes fervently that the visions of his sister are not accurate; that the messenger, when he arrives, brings more good tidings than bad.  Believing her to be dead and actually hearing about it are two very different things.  She wants Cersei to have survived, for Jaime’s sake if nothing else.

She tries to ignore the low dread which is coiling in her gut.  Her instincts, her connection to the Queen, may not be as strong as Jaime’s, but she has always trusted them.  This time, she would very much like to be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and - as ever - for your patience.


	12. North V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, once again, what I intended as the final chapter wrote itself out of control, and I had to split it up again rather than make it insanely long. There’s still a lot of ground to cover in the next chapter, which at this point I am loath to refer to as the “final” chapter because apparently that’s a recipe for disaster and unexpected words. I’m hoping that the ending, when I finally get there, packs enough of an emotional punch that the wait will be worth the effort… (Possibly you can consider that a warning in advance?)
> 
> Which is to say: there will be yet more angst in this chapter, but I promised a happy ending and it will be coming, I promise. (I always think happy endings are more satisfying if you earn them…) I will eventually be dealing with the fates of various characters, including Cersei and Daenerys, but the main focus will obviously remain on our two favourite lovesick idiots. So: lots of angst and plenty of fluff, and a few (hopefully) amusing moments – and there may be some surprises, along the way. I shall say no more, for fear of spoilers. *zipped mouth emoji*
> 
> Apologies once again for the delay on this chapter, but it took a while to percolate, and I was trying to keep all the elements that I wanted for this fresh in my brain so I wouldn’t forget them when the time came to actually write it. I’ve also upped the rating just to be on the safe side: there’s nothing graphic but I thought it best to cover all my bases, particularly because I’m not quite sure whether the next chapter will warrant it either…
> 
> I hope you enjoy. =)

In an ironic twist of fate, Jaime is one of the first to witness the arrival of the messenger from the South.

He is once again overseeing the reconstruction of a section of Winterfell, trying to make up for the days lost to the blizzard.  Several of the men have tried to convince him that the temperature has increased, but he finds it hard to believe.  They would not say so to his face, but he can tell from their barely-concealed smirks that they think him soft, a cosseted Southerner who has never experienced cold in his life.  Standing around and barking orders, assisting only when his single hand is needed to help balance a stone or lift a piece of timber, is not exactly enough to keep him warm – so Brienne makes sure to kit him out in multiple layers of wool and leather and fur, two left-handed gloves and three pairs of socks.  (She will make someone a fine wife some day, he often ponders to himself, and then smiles to remember that she’ll be _his_.)  Despite that, the chill somehow finds its way through to his very bones, and he has to concede that either the Northerners really _do_ have thicker skin, or he’s merely not built for winter weather.

He is atop the scaffold, supervising a complex system of pulleys designed to transport the heavy stones to the top of the wall they are rebuilding, when he hears a noise that he had hoped never to hear again outside of his nightmares.  For a moment, he almost does not believe his ears, thinking to have imagined it.  Then the sound once again echoes across the vast expanse of barren land surrounding the castle, and from the reaction of the men he knows they have heard it, too: the blood-curdling shriek of an approaching dragon.

Suddenly, he is back on the battlefield, facing down the Targaryen girl and rushing at her monstrous beast with nothing but courage and a spear; he is back in the Dragon Pit with his sister as Sandor Clegane releases that horrific, half-decomposed creature for everyone to see; he is back in the courtyard of Winterfell as the wights are descending in their endless droves, whilst an undead fiend breathes deadly ice and destroys everything in its path.

Another shriek, closer now, snaps him back to reality, as the unmistakable shape of the Dragon Queen’s last remaining child soars into view.  It swoops low over the tower, casting the building into shadow, and several of the Northmen duck or cover their heads whilst others merely watch in wonder, as the dragon circles around the castle – once, twice, with deliberate finesse, as though showing off – before coming to land some distance outside the main gate.

Shielding his eyes against the bright sky, Jaime can just about make out the riders on the dragon’s back.  There is no shock of white hair against the black scales, no sign of Daenerys; instead, a mop of dark curly hair and ample furs identifies one of the riders as none other than Jon Snow.  The other is huddled in front of him, and Jaime cannot see properly until Snow dismounts, the dragon lowering its massive head towards the ground.  Snow half-climbs and half-falls to the ground, showing none of the poise of his Targaryen queen, and his unconventional mount grunts out a puff of air through its nostrils, as if snorting in amusement. 

The other rider is slower to react, but as he also rises and makes his way downwards, his identity becomes apparent.

Jaime barely registers the protests of the men as he abandons them, passing the guide rope in his hand to the nearest person and descending the scaffold far quicker than a one-handed man should be capable of.  He lands inelegantly in a pile of swept-up snow at the base of the tower, stumbling briefly before righting himself, and then breaks into a run towards the castle’s main gate.

His gait is easier, these days, without the golden hand to weigh him down, but his balance is definitely not what it once was and he almost falls flat on his arse on a few occasions, skidding on patches of ice or whilst trying to negotiate a corner at speed.  He is vaguely aware that a few onlookers have ceased in whatever they are doing to stare at him, but he pays them no heed and continues on.

He passes Brienne and Podrick in the training yard with their gaggle of young students; the children gather at the fence to gawp at him, and Brienne halts in her lesson, watching Jaime run past with a questioning expression.  She calls out to him, but he can barely hear her in his haste, abandoning the training yard as quickly as he stumbled into it.  With the main gate in sight, he quickens his pace.

Lady Sansa and her entourage are making their way from the castle to meet the unexpected guests, Maester Tarly pushing Bran in his wheeled chair.  The gate slowly opens as Jaime draws nearer, and after a brief hesitation, Jon Snow steps through into the main courtyard to approach Sansa and wrap her in a warm hug.  Jaime’s attention is elsewhere, and he only just manages to avoid the family reunion as he barrels through the open gate, dropping to his knees and sliding the final few inches to collide with a small figure, who he practically knocks off his feet with the force of his embrace.

In the sudden silence, he becomes aware that a few others have joined the crowd by the gate and a small audience is now staring at him in various states of confusion, but he cannot quite summon the energy to care.

“Jaime,” says a muffled voice at his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re so pleased to see me, but I need to be able to breathe.”

His arms finally relent, and Tyrion emerges, a bemused expression on his face.  Jaime grips his brother’s arms with perhaps more pressure than is necessary, making certain his presence is real, and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Gods, I was so sure I would never see you again.”

Tyrion’s smile reaches his eyes.  “My luck hasn’t run out just yet.”

“The raven…”

He nods.  “Yes, it reached me, and just in time.  But I’ll share all of that later.”

“Later?”  Understanding dawns.  “You mean _you’re_ the messenger?”

“Oh, well _now_ you’ve ruined the surprise.”

Behind Jaime’s back, Sansa clears her throat deliberately, and when she speaks her voice is light with amusement.

“I’m sure Lord Tyrion and Jon are weary after their journey,” she suggests.  “Let’s all go inside so they can rest and warm up.”

Jaime nods, and finally releases his brother.  He gets to his feet, brushing the snow from his knees, and when he turns around he is unsurprised to find that Brienne has also joined the welcoming party, and is now staring at him with an expression midway between affectionate and concerned.  He had shared some of his fears for Tyrion with her, but even Jaime himself had not been aware of just how much he had missed his little brother.  He should feel embarrassed for the display, but he cannot, now that he knows Tyrion is safe.  As he moves to her side, he communicates with a glance that there is nothing to worry about; nonetheless, Brienne’s hand finds its way surreptitiously into his, and squeezes gently.

Tyrion straightens his slightly rumpled clothing and slowly approaches the Wardeness of the North, reaching for her already-outstretched hand and pressing a courteous kiss to her knuckles.

“My Lady, it is good to see you again.”

Sansa’s cheeks are flushed; from the cold or some other reason, it is difficult to say.

“Winterfell is glad to welcome you back, my Lord.”

Tyrion nods with a knowing half-smile, and then focuses his attention instead on Brienne.  Her hand is still joined tightly with Jaime’s; she is usually wary of public displays of affection, no matter how minimal, but their linked fingers are hidden by their furs.  Tyrion’s height provides him with an advantageous viewpoint, and he does not miss the subtle connection of their hands.  He chooses not to mention it, but stores the knowledge away for later.

“Ser Brienne,” he begins, “allow me to thank you for looking after my brother.  I thought for certain he’d have frozen to death by now.”

“Not for want of trying, my Lord,” she responds, the neutral expression on her face in direct opposition to the almost-imperceptible lilt of her voice, and Tyrion’s face lights up in an amused grin.

“Oh, I’d forgotten how much I like her, Jaime.  Please say we can keep her.”

Jaime sighs in exasperation, but he allows the comment to pass, still a little overwhelmed by the unexpected arrival of his brother.  Even Lady Sansa cracks a smile, suggesting that not _every_ Lannister is low in her regard.

The entourage makes its way indoors, the heavy gate closing behind them.  Tyrion catches up to Jon and Sansa, interjecting his own comments to whatever Snow is saying to her; she laughs, the first genuine mirth anyone has heard from her since watching the children play in the snow.

Jaime and Brienne are the last to follow, and he cannot tear his eyes away from the back of his brother’s head, as though he will disappear if he moves out of sight.  Brienne’s hand is firm and warm in his, and when she lightly squeezes it again, grounding him, he returns the pressure and inches very slightly closer, bumping his shoulder against hers as they walk.

—J|B—

By mid-afternoon, Winterfell’s unexpected guests have been fed and watered and given some time to recover from their journey.  (The dragon, having delivered them, has taken off and headed in a southerly direction, back to the capital.)  Jaime lunches with his brother, firing questions across the table that Tyrion refuses to answer until everyone is gathered to hear the news together.  He cannot conceal his amusement at how long it takes Jaime to ask perhaps the most obvious question: how the dragon arrived without its mother to guide it, and indeed the whereabouts of the Targaryen Queen.  Tyrion merely smiles enigmatically, and says nothing.

When it comes to the subject of Brienne, Jaime is equally as reticent to share information.  Notwithstanding that their _last_ conversation about her ended with Bronn aiming a crossbow at his head, Jaime is not willing to divulge anything more than what Tyrion has already surmised, not without first seeking reassurance that Brienne is comfortable with him sharing the events leading up to this point.  It is _their_ story, not only his, and in any case he is certain his brother will berate him soundly for his idiotic decision to leave, which makes Jaime even less inclined to tell him.

An hour or so later, Lady Sansa is ready to receive everyone, and sends Maester Tarly to round them up.  The War Room does not feel an appropriate venue to share news about new-found peace, so the announcement will be made in the Great Hall.

On Jaime and Tyrion’s arrival, they find the large room set up with a blazing hearth and a collection of chairs set up in a half-circle around the fire.  The scene is not dissimilar to the night before the Battle for Winterfell, except that there is daylight – dwindling and grey, but unmistakable – beyond the windows, rather than a soon-to-be interminable darkness.  The servants bring a large pitcher of water, another of wine, and set out goblets, before swiftly disappearing again.

Jaime finds a chair, and Tyrion heads directly for the wine, pouring himself a generous serving.  Jon Snow and Sansa enter next, the older Stark sibling now responsible for wheeling Bran into the room, and they are followed by Samwell, Brienne and Podrick, the latter of whom remains by the closed door to try and deter anyone who might try to gain entry.  Lady Sansa does not wish the door to be barred, but equally she does not want to be disturbed.

Samwell takes it upon himself to serve drinks to anyone else who wants them, whilst everyone finds a chair.  Jon positions Bran at the end of the row, close to the fire’s heat.

Lady Sansa is the first to speak, standing to address those in the room once they are all seated.  The fire brings out the vibrant red of her hair; throws flickering light onto the intricately-woven fabric of her dress to create shadows where there were none before; reflects with a subtle glint off the direwolf brooch near her collar.  When Jaime chances a glimpse to his brother, he suppresses a smile at the far-away expression on Tyrion’s face, as he gazes at Sansa in all her regal beauty.  He does not draw attention it, unwilling to embarrass either of them, but also because there’s no point in denying that he must look very similar himself when contemplating Brienne.

“Thank you all for joining me,” says Sansa by way of introduction.  “I must say, I am as surprised as the rest of you to discover the identity of our mysterious messenger, and just as impatient to learn what he has to tell us.  Before we begin, I wanted to make it clear that I consider everyone in this room a trusted friend.  That may come as a shock to some of you,” – she glances to Jaime – “but there is no sense in taking alliances for granted.  We must find them where we can, and have faith that they will endure.”

Sansa pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

“I am equally as ignorant of the recent events in the capital as most of you,” she continues, “and I’m sure we have all formed our own ideas as to what has happened.  In a few moments, we will know for certain.  All I would ask is that whatever Lord Tyrion has to share with us, it must not yet leave this room.  The time for formal announcements to the common-folk will come later.  Rumours have already been spreading and I do not wish to give them any further fuel.  I am putting my faith in all of you that you will not break this confidence.  Is that understood?”

“Aye,” says Brienne with conviction, and the others echo the sentiment in turn, including Pod from his sentry position at the door.

Sansa gives a brisk, satisfied nod.

“Lord Tyrion, I shall leave the rest of the proceedings in your capable hands.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Tyrion hops down from his chair as Sansa resumes her place.  He does not cut quite such a commanding figure, but those assembled train their eyes on him nonetheless, eager to hear his account of Daenerys’s victory.  He begins with pleasantries and inane commentary about the weather, much to the frustration of his audience.  He attempts a joke, which falls awkwardly flat, and in the uncomfortable silence that ensues, he casts his gaze about the room.

Bran Stark is wearing his usual enigmatic expression, revealing nothing as to his reactions, though the corners of his mouth upturn slightly into a smile, suggesting that he knows something as yet unrevealed.  It is Jon Snow, however, who silently encourages Tyrion to continue, giving him a reassuring nod.  His stoic face does not falter.

Tyrion hesitates, trying to find his words, and after a few agonising seconds he heaves a sigh and turns to Jon imploringly.

“It would make much more sense if you told them yourself,” he suggests.

“He’s right,” adds Sansa, and Samwell nods solemnly, as though he too is aware of the situation.

Jaime and Brienne exchange a glance, both of them thoroughly confused.  They and Podrick, it seems, are the only people in the room unaware of whatever knowledge Tyrion is supposed to impart.

Jon eventually nods his agreement and rises from the chair, but it takes him a long moment to decide how best to proceed.  When he does finally speak, he is succinct and to the point, quickly explaining the circumstances of his birth and his true lineage as if reciting it by rote, as though he has grown tired of repeating it.  A river of familiar names washes over Jaime as he tries to make sense of the information.

“So you were never actually a Stark?”

“No.  My true name is Aegon Targaryen.”

A tree is branching in Jaime’s mind as he pieces the information together, and within moments he has made the connection to Daenerys – and, indeed, why Jon and Tyrion had arrived by dragon without getting thrown from the creature’s back mid-flight.  Jon’s relationship with his Dragon Queen makes Jaime pause, but he is hardly one to pass judgement on family lying with family; at least the Targaryens have always been open about it, which is more than can be said for Lannisters.  He does not wish to dwell on thoughts of his sister, but now that the seed is planted he cannot quite shake the nightmarish images that his subconscious mind has been conjuring up.  He grits his teeth and tries to focus on the situation at hand.

“But surely that gives you a right to the Iron Throne?”

Tyrion interjects: “We’ll get to that part.  Jon’s— apologies, _Aegon_ ’s parentage is a rather important factor in what happened in Kings Landing, or I should say what _will_ happen.”

“Who else is aware?” asks Brienne.

“It was me who discovered it,” says Samwell, holding up his hand as though volunteering.  “Well, so did Gilly.  Between us we found out about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and after that it was a case of putting everything together.”

The rest of the story emerges, how the news trickled like melting snow to Daenerys, to the Stark siblings, to Tyrion and beyond.  The younger Lannister’s face turns ashen as he recounts the fate of Lord Varys, their foiled attempt at a coup resulting in his fiery demise.

“Your raven arrived mere days after Lord Varys’s execution,” he clarifies, “just at the point when I was despairing of ever making her see sense again.  She had no reason to believe me about the wildfire – no reason to trust me at all, in truth – but her only alternative was to take the risk.”

“I assume you managed to talk her around?” asks Brienne.

“Not as such.”  Tyrion hesitates, trying to find the right way to explain it.  “You need to understand, Daenerys never wanted any bloodshed, if it was possible to take the Throne peacefully.  It was never in her interest to destroy thousands of innocent lives, nor to rule over her people with fear.  If there was any possibility that the wildfire existed, she simply couldn’t take that chance.”

The assembled persons in the room lean back in their chairs in relief, to know that Kings Landing was not taken by means of fire, and Tyrion continues:

“She used Drogon only where absolutely necessary.  To take out Euron Greyjoy and his fleet, first and foremost, in vengeance for Rhaegal.  If she had not made that decision herself, I very much suspect Drogon would have taken matters into his own… claws.  Then she took care of the Scorpions, to ensure there were no further accidents.  I have no doubt that the sight of the dragon circling the castle put the fear of all seven Gods into the small-folk, but they all survived to tell the tale.”

As Tyrion continues, weaving a narrative to describe the melee that took place between the forces on the ground, whilst Daenerys patrolled the sky, Jaime finds it more and more difficult to concentrate on his brother’s words.  The visions of his sister have returned with a vengeance, appearing before him in the flames as he stares into the hearth, Tyrion’s silhouette becoming an indistinct blur and his voice sounding further and further away.  Try as he might, he cannot shake the images; his sister’s name is the only thing to filter through the noise in his brain and whatever Tyrion is saying, Jaime knows it cannot be good; the flames are engulfing everything, Cersei’s screams drowning out all other sounds, the smell of smoke and blistering flesh, _burn them all_ , green sparks and glowing blue eyes and the sickening push-snap-squish of Oathkeeper plunging straight into Brienne’s heart as her blood spatters across his chest and drips between his fingers, _oh Gods I have to get out of here_ —

As Jaime’s chair scrapes across the flagstones, everyone turns to the source of the disturbance, Tyrion’s narration halting mid-flow to stare in alarm at his brother’s sudden movement upwards.  Before Jaime can leave, Brienne’s hand reaches instinctively for his right forearm, halting his escape.  It grounds him, enough to regain a little composure. 

“Jaime?”

He focuses on Brienne – the warmth of her hand against his arm, the dark blue of her eyes in the low light, her brow furrowed in concern – and releases a slow breath before speaking.

“I… I _can’t_.”

Brienne nods in understanding and releases him, and he heads straight for the doorway.  Podrick barely has time to move out of the way, but his own surprise at Jaime’s demeanour is enough to make him step aside and let him through without incident. 

The door shuts again and Brienne stares at it for a moment, before turning to Sansa.  She does not have to ask if she can follow, as Sansa is already nodding her assent.  Brienne nods back, in gratitude, and then rises to leave the room.  Podrick smiles reassuringly as he opens the door for her, closing it behind her as she exits.

She finds Jaime in the corridor just outside, a few paces from the door, leaning back with his head against the wall.  He seems less troubled than he did in the Great Hall; his eyes are closed, but when he hears her approach he opens them again, a hint of surprise on his face.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” he says.

“We both know that isn’t true,” she counters, as she comes to a halt in front of him, and he gives her a grim smile.

“You should be in there,” he suggests, gesturing towards the door with a slight movement of his head.  “Your duty is to Sansa.”

“I doubt she’s in any immediate danger.”  Brienne takes a step closer and reaches for his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.  “Right now, my _duty_ is to _you_.”

He stares at her, the disbelief writ large on his face, a familiar expression that she wishes she had vanquished by now.  She has been trying hard, these past few weeks, to make him understand that her devotion is not limited, that her love is unconditional, that he _deserves_ it to be, and for the most part she thinks he is starting to believe it.  Then there are occasions, such as now, when it seems as though he is spiralling away from her again.  The unexpected arrival of his brother has thrown him off-centre, and the news of Jon Snow’s true parentage has raised questions for Brienne herself, the most pertinent of which is why Lady Sansa did not trust her enough to tell her before now, though Brienne imagines she must have had her reasons to keep it a secret.

Neither she nor Jaime expected to hear news about his sister so soon, and neither of them are adequately prepared, but Brienne at least has the benefit of detachment.  To her, Cersei has been nothing but a somewhat distant figure, an occasionally troubling acquaintance, a shadow looming in the dark.  To Jaime, she is so much more than that.  Brienne has admittedly shied away from dwelling too much on Jaime’s history with his twin, but their connection runs deeper than she will ever fully understand.

Despite that, Jaime loves her; Brienne _knows_ it, more clearly and succinctly than she has ever known anything in her life.  He left Kings Landing to travel North, to fight with her, to die with her.  Surviving to see another day was an unexpected surprise, and as time has progressed, Brienne has begun to understand more clearly why he felt the need to leave.  His past and potential future had warred within him, and he had chosen the easier battle to fight.  Coming back with her to Winterfell was his own choice, and they had not really planned beyond that.  They both knew this day would come eventually: that Cersei’s fate could not be ignored indefinitely.

Hearing about it in a room full of new-found and slightly reluctant allies, some of whom would gladly have seen his head on a pike only months ago, is not an ideal situation.  Whilst Brienne is thankful that Lady Sansa provided an alternative option for Jaime, she does not feel adequately qualified to remain in the Great Hall and later repeat whatever Tyrion was in the middle of sharing.  She has no great skill in story-telling, and Tyrion can undoubtedly deliver it in a more sensitive manner.  For now, her priority is ensuring Jaime is in the right mindset to hear it.

His expression has turned glassy again, focusing on a point somewhere just behind her, as the silence between them extends and gives him room to drift off towards that dark place that Brienne can never quite reach.  She reaches up with her free hand to cup his face, a sure but gentle pressure, and the warmth of the contact brings him back.  He blinks rapidly and then meets her gaze, leaning into her touch as her thumb gently caresses the line of his cheekbone.

“Tell me what you need, Jaime.”

“You,” he says, without hesitation, his hand squeezing hers before he relinquishes it and raises his arm to mirror her gesture, his palm resting against her cheek.  “I need _you_.”

In the next second, his hand shifts, fingers sinking into her hair as he cups the back of her head and draws her down, rising up on his toes to meet her halfway as he presses his mouth to hers.  His right arm winds around her waist so he can tug her closer, so she’s almost crushing him against the stone wall of the corridor, but when she tries to give him space he tightens his grip possessively and kisses her harder, deeper, desperate.

They are in one of Winterfell’s main thoroughfares, and ordinarily she would try her best to extricate herself from Jaime’s insistent embrace, rather than give any passers-by a reason to throw jeers and whistles in their direction; but instead, she relents, because she asked him what he needed and this is his answer.

Only a few nights ago, he woke thrashing and yelling from another nightmare, unaware of his surroundings for a long moment until Brienne’s touch – a gentle hand against his arm – had reoriented him.  In the stillness of the night, it did not seem appropriate to speak; he responded to her concerned expression with a silent nod before collapsing with relief into her open arms.  He had nuzzled his nose against her face until his lips found hers, until everything was a blur of tangled limbs and frantic hands and fumbled clothing, until he finally fell asleep with his head resting over her heart.  It had taken her quite some time to follow him into slumber, listening to his even breathing in the dark.

The recollection of that night is what finally forces her to separate from Jaime, before things can become any more heated.  She raises her other hand, encircling his face so she can persuade him away from her.  He protests, and tries to kiss her again, but she shakes her head.  His gaze flits to their location and he gives her a small, amused smile, finally understanding her reticence to continue, and her hands drop away.  Still, he does not relinquish his grip just yet, his handless arm stroking gently up and down the dip of her spine.  His hand at her nape tugs her gently towards him again, but this time he merely presses their foreheads together, exhaling on a sigh.

“I love you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.  His left arm wraps around her waist, his hand grasping at the material of her jerkin against her back; her own arms raise to receive him, and he melts into her embrace, his chin coming to rest against her shoulder.  “ _Gods_ , how I love you.  You can’t possibly know how much.”

She can feel tears stinging her eyes and wills them away, not trusting herself to speak just yet.  They remain like that, wrapped up in each other, for quite some time, before Brienne finally releases him and tentatively pulls away.  He lets her go, this time, though his hand drifts back into hers.

“Let’s go home,” he suggests, and her heart skips a beat unexpectedly at the words.

She can no longer recall when her quarters became his, became _theirs_ , but she has never really considered Winterfell her home.  _Tarth_ is her true home, and maybe Jaime’s as well in the not-too-distant future, but in the meantime, what else can their shared accommodation be called?  They are modest quarters, designed for one rather than two: not the smallest room that the castle can provide but not the largest either.  Brienne is certain that if she asked, Sansa would willingly move them elsewhere, into something more fitting, but the need has never arisen.  She has never given thought to moving.  For better or worse, her room at Winterfell has been the backdrop of the life they have slowly carved out together since Jaime arrived North.  When she thinks back over everything that has happened, she realises just how many moments of true vulnerability they have shared within those walls, how many times she has returned from her daily duties to find Jaime there already, content to do nothing but sit and wait for her, and suddenly she understands:

It’s the only place he’s ever felt safe.

The feelings that engulf her at that realisation are overwhelming, and she dare not try to speak over the lump in her throat.  Instead, all she can do is nod, and walk beside him as they navigate the corridors to their room.

—J|B—

Dusk is descending over the North, its white canopy streaked with bands of muted colour: pink and orange and yellow, barren trees standing out in stark silhouette against the horizon.

Since their return, they have done little except enjoy the silence.  Brienne has methodically cleaned and polished her armour, whilst Jaime has been staring out of the window, lost in thought.  She knows better than to try and engage him in conversation, though she has checked on him, periodically, to ensure that he’s still with her.

They have no idea how much time has passed when a tentative knock at the door attracts their attention.  Brienne looks to Jaime before getting up to answer it.

“Should I send them away?” she asks.

“Yes,” he responds.  “Please.  I don’t want to speak to anyone.”

She nods her understanding and crosses the room.

When she opens the door, at first she thinks someone is playing a joke, because there does not appear to be anyone outside, until a voice below immediately identifies their visitor.

“Ser Brienne.  I’ve been led to understand that my brother may be here?”

She looks down to find Tyrion, clasping a pitcher of wine in one hand and two cups in the other, with an expectant expression on his face.

“Yes, Lord Tyrion, he’s here.  But he doesn’t—“

“Let him in, Brienne,” interrupts Jaime.  “I’ll make the exception for family.”

Brienne stands aside to allow Tyrion to enter, and he makes a beeline for the table to set down his supplies.  He pours a cup of wine for himself, and another for Jaime, and holds it out for him to take.  Jaime merely stares at it, making no effort to move.

“Believe me, Jaime, you’re going to need it.  Join me.”

His face turns ashen, as he realises belatedly why Tyrion has sought him out.  He had hoped to delay the inevitable for a while longer.  Still, he feels decidedly saner than he had in the Great Hall, and perhaps it might be best to get it over with, air the wound so it can heal faster, although he suspects there might be some salt to pour into it first.

He crosses to the table and pulls out a chair, dropping into it sullenly, and Tyrion climbs up onto the other.  Once they are settled, Brienne heads for the door, not wanting to impose on what is likely to be a painful moment between the two brothers.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Her progress is halted by Jaime softly calling her name, and she turns back to face him, a silent question on her face.

“Stay,” he says.  “Please.  I want you to stay.”

She nods, and moves to the window where Jaime had been only minutes ago, to observe the proceedings from a safe distance and make herself as inconspicuous as possible.  Tyrion glances at her apologetically.

“I would offer you some wine, my Lady, but I only brought two cups.”

“I… don’t drink wine, my Lord, but thank you for your consideration.”  She feels decidedly awkward and out-of-place, as though she is intruding on something which she does not need to be present for.  “Jaime, are you sure—“

“Yes,” he insists.  “Stay.”

She falls silent, at that, and tries to melt into the shadows.

Tyrion has finished his cup of wine and is in the process of pouring a second when he realises Jaime’s is still full.  He gestures towards it impatiently, and for a long moment the two brothers merely stare at each other in silence, before Jaime heaves a sigh and lifts the cup.  He takes a mouthful, just to stop Tyrion from complaining, and is pleasantly surprised to find that it is of much better quality than usual.

Tyrion smirks at his expression as he lowers the cup again.

“I took a detour to the cellars on my way here,” he admits.  “If we’re going to drown our sorrows, we might as well do it properly.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” asks Jaime, and Tyrion’s face becomes more serious again.  He gives up on banalities about the drink, and launches into a hesitant explanation.

“Lady Sansa thought it might be best if I came to see you… to finish what I started earlier.”

Jaime levels a thoughtful gaze at his brother.

“Out with it, then,” he says.  “Tell me how our sister died.”

“Jaime—“

“I assume that’s what you were saying in the Great Hall,” he continues, his tone becoming harsh and ironic.  “I’m afraid I stopped listening.  I didn’t particularly relish hearing it in a room full of people who would gladly take her demise as a cause for celebration.”

Tyrion sighs, and takes another drink, knowing that Jaime is including _him_ amongst that number.

“I loved her too, you know.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Fine,” he counters, “you’re entitled to believe or disbelieve whatever you like.  But it’s true, I assure you.  I loved her, as much as I hated her – as much as she hated _me_.  And she _did_ hate me.  Right up to the end, to her last breath.”

Tyrion’s face is stricken and haunted, and it’s at that moment Jaime realises why his brother is the only person who could have delivered the news from the south.

“You were there…”

The younger Lannister nods, closing his eyes for a moment before seemingly shaking off the images in his head.  He composes himself, taking another drink for courage.

“I was not the only eye witness,” he explains.  “Jon Snow was there, and Arya Stark – she has elected to remain in the capital, for now, but she’ll be returning to Winterfell soon enough.  Daenerys did not want me to come here, but I insisted, for _your_ sake.  Tell me, Jaime, would you rather hear this from me, or from some impartial messenger?”

“Was the Stark girl responsible?” he asks, though he’s not entirely certain he wants to know.  He has seen for himself how lethal the smallest Stark can be, and he hopes that she would have been merciful, that she would not have dragged it out.  Cersei would not offer the same courtesy, he knows, but even now he cannot stand the thought that she might have suffered.

“For our sister?  No.  But she helped to clear the path.”

Jaime wonders just how many people Arya Stark could have taken down on her own.  She dealt with the Night King single-handedly, but a horde of Queensguard is a different matter, and Ser Gregor is an indestructible, untiring barge of a man – if he can still be _called_ a man.  It seems preposterous that she could have defeated him in single combat when so many before her have failed.

He has too many questions, and not enough answers, and from Tyrion’s cryptic comments so far, it seems that the tale he needs to tell will be long and arduous.  Defeated, Jaime slumps down in his chair and reaches half-heartedly for the cup of wine.

“Why don’t I start at the beginning?” suggests Tyrion, and Jaime can only nod in agreement.

Tyrion leans back, trying to get more comfortable in the hard wooden chair.  The tale he had spun for the others was sparse in certain details – memories he has been carrying around since Cersei’s final moments – and he wants nothing more than to unburden them to someone who will _understand_.  Jaime is the only family he has left, but more than that, he is the only person within their immediate circle to ever treat Tyrion with any semblance of decency.  He wishes he had better news to impart; that their reunion could be based on happier circumstances.

Before he begins, he chances a glance to Brienne, keeping a steady watch in the corner of the room.  He tries to impart without words how sorry he is, that she will have to take the brunt of however Jaime chooses to deal with the news, and he thinks she must catch his meaning when she gives him a single, stoic nod, an indication to continue.

Jaime does not miss the silent exchange, and the reminder of Brienne’s presence gives him a new-found courage: a reminder that, no matter what happens, she is there.  His past life is gone, countless miles away; his future is standing only a few short steps behind him, stoic and certain.  Brienne’s concern, her love for him, seems to radiate outwards, bathing him in warmth from the inside out and slowly overcoming the chill in his heart when he thinks of his sister.

The visions which have plagued him are gone, now that the truth is so near.  Tyrion is waiting, giving him time, and Jaime has to concede that he was right: an unknown messenger would not have been so considerate. 

Finally, he takes a breath, steeling himself, and gives his brother a nod.

Tyrion swirls his cup of wine, staring into its crimson depths until the liquid settles once more, before setting it down on the table’s surface.  He clasps it with both hands, anchoring himself, and then, he begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick catch-up on some background machinations:
> 
> 1\. Jaime told Brienne about his raven to Tyrion (in "North II") and Brienne subsequently advised Sansa, without going into detail as to why Jaime (and Tyrion) would know about the wildfire. I'm also assuming that Tyrion is aware of the real incident behind 'Kingslayer' because in all honesty I can't recall if he is in canon (or if it was ever clarified).
> 
> 2\. Nobody at Winterfell other than Sansa, Bran and Samwell are aware of Jon's true lineage.
> 
> Given how many words this thing grew, I didn't want to spend too much time hashing all of this out, so hopefully this has helped to clear up any loose ends. :)
> 
> With any luck, the next chapter will ACTUALLY be the final chapter, though I seem to jinx myself every time I say that. I know where it's going, and I know how I want to write it, but in all honesty I'm absolutely dreading it - so I apologise in advance for the delay. Hopefully, there was enough angst and fluff in this segment to satisfy.
> 
> I've never attempted writing Tyrion before so please let me know if he seems OOC at all. I am a low-key Sanrion shipper so you can expect that in the background of the next chapter also. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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